


A Further Shadow Despite the Darkness

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, First Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lauron-Nama part (three). At his fiftieth birthday, Glorfindel is faced with a choice that will determine his path for the rest of his life. Slash and het both; somewhat dark.<br/><br/>New: Chapter Eight:<br/>After the banquet, Glorfindel does his best to avoid the King.  Idril makes an unusual request, much to Fingon's benefit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finwe

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

In eleven days, Glorfindel would be sentenced to die. That is, he would be if he were in Valmar. The sentencing would coincide with the day he turned fifty. The idea made him uncomfortable.  
  
The number of things that were illegal in Valmar greatly exceeded the number of things that were illegal in Eithel Sirion. He had been surprised, for example, to learn that Eithel Sirion had no law against touching the bare hand of a married woman, or wearing hairstyles that were clearly above one's station, or consuming intoxicating substances in public places. There was an old law from Tirion days stating that two men must not lie together as a man and a woman do, but in Glorfindel's experience, it had never been applied. So he was uncertain as to what the punishment might be if one were arrested under this law. There was no corresponding law against two women. Nobody had ever explained why, but Glorfindel assumed it was because the ratio of women to men in the area was one to two or three at least, and any woman would have a difficult time effectively turning down the never-ending flow of marriage proposals from desperate soldiers. He then wondered if a new law had been passed in Tirion, where the ratio would surely be of a different leaning.  
  
Valmar had laws prohibiting all manner of sexual conduct except between one man and one woman, and even this was limited to a strict set of decent acts that could be performed only after marriage. Punishments for lawbreaking ranged from monetary fines (for an indiscreet, unmarried man or for a married couple caught in an indecent position) to imprisonment or hard labour (for sexually adventurous, husbandless women or for anyone being untrue to a lawful spouse). Public whipping was reserved for the worst sorts of criminals and perverts with unnatural sexual desires (who prefer animals or individuals of their own gender). But the harshest punishments were handed down to those men who lay with other men and took the woman's part. For this most offensive and twisted act, they were awarded death, and their spirits were sent in shame to Mandos, where they could be properly judged for their wickedness before the eyes of the Valar.  
  
So, had Glorfindel been in Valmar, he would be sentenced to die in eleven days, at which time he would have become an adult in all senses of the word and be held fully accountable for his actions under the law. At forty-nine he only deserved a good whipping, but at fifty he would have to die, either by drowning or burning. The specific method was determined by the judge on sentencing-day, depending on mood and personal preference. Neither sounded very appealing. However, he was uncertain of how he would be able to avoid this inevitable end.  
  
He had no desire to remain in Eithel Sirion for the rest of his life. He had promised Amma that he would one day return to Valmar, and he would fulfil that promise if it took him twelve thousand years. It would do him no good to be sentenced to die at the moment of his glorious return. What a waste it would be to survive all that time only to be killed as a cirizel by Ingwë's zealous judges. Now the problem, as he saw it, was how to explain all of this to Fingon.  
  
He turned over in bed to stare at Fingon's sleeping back in the dark of the room, and was at a loss for where to begin. "Finno?" he whispered. When no answer came, he spoke more clearly. "Finno?"  
  
Fingon only grunted.  
  
"Finno."  
  
"What?"  
  
Taking a breath, Glorfindel quickly said, "I'll be fifty in eleven days."  
  
"I know. You told me."  
  
Glorfindel nodded, though he knew Fingon could not see him. "Being fifty is important in Valmar."  
  
"Yes, I know that, too. I suppose it's also important here."  
  
"In Valmar, certain things happen when you turn fifty."  
  
With a rough sort of sound, Fingon turned himself over to face Glorfindel. "I know. You also told me that. Yesterday, and a few days before, and a few days before that, too. Are you trying to hint to me that you expect a particularly large present? If that be the case, you're better off just telling me outright what you want so I can get it for you, rather than repeating these vague hints. Because I honestly do not know what you mean here."  
  
"Nothing," Glorfindel said quickly. "I was only saying. You needn't get me a very large present. That's not what happens in Valmar."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I only meant that when you're fifty, you become an adult, and are expected to follow all the... all the laws and such."  
  
Groaning, Fingon rubbed his hands over his face. "Is this something about one of Ingwë's preposterous and overbearing rules used to keep all citizens under his complete control?"  
  
Glorfindel was silent for a long moment before answering, "Maybe."  
  
"Then I don't want to hear it," said Fingon. "And you needn't worry about it. You're not in Valmar; therefore, it is impossible for any of Valmar's laws to touch you. Don't concern yourself with the irrelevant." He turned back to face the wall, and pulled the blankets up to his shoulder.  
  
"Right," sighed Glorfindel. There was nothing else to be said. He would be sentenced to death after all. "Sorry, Finno. Good night."  
  
"Good night."  
  
~  
  
That there would be a grand party in eight days' time had nothing to do with Glorfindel's milestone. Fingolfin's second son, Fingon's younger brother, was travelling from the eastern coast with his daughter and a large entourage. The party was on their account; that evening's play as well. Glorfindel found himself annoyed by the mere idea of these two events: the party because he had not been invited, and the play because he would be forced to perform in it.  
  
He looked down at his costume, looked at his reflection in the mirror, and dropped his head into his hands.  
  
Oropher punched his shoulder. "Don't. You'll ruin your makeup."  
  
"I look like a girl."  
  
"That's good, isn't it? You're supposed to be Indis. Indis is a girl."  
  
"I look like my mother! What if I had a bit less black on my eyes, and no lip colour, and here, my hair is too-"  
  
"No," said Oropher. "I'm in charge of getting you dressed and ready. You look full nice, so stop fussing. You make a good Indis."  
  
Sighing, Glorfindel looked again at his silvery reflection. At a glance, the face of the sister he had never had stared back at him. He frowned. The ghost sister frowned back, looking pouty and coy. "I hate this play," he said.  
  
"So do I. Not because you're Indis, but because it's boring. Golodhren plays are always boring, about historic events. Can't they ever think of new stories?"  
  
"I'd probably still have to be a girl, even if the play were about something completely made up."  
  
"Probably," said Oropher. "But you make a fair girl. I'd nob you if I didn't know you were a boy."  
  
"Right. Can we speak on something else?"  
  
Oropher shrugged. "Sure. I can talk about anything." He glanced about the room, clearly searching for anything to inspire a conversation, until his gaze fell on three girls hemming costumes at the next table. With a sly grin, he leaned toward Glorfindel and said, just loudly enough to be overheard, "How many Golodhren pricks does it take to deflower a maiden?"  
  
Two of the girls looked over to him, immediately curious, the third ducked her head modestly, and Glorfindel groaned. "I don't think I want to know."  
  
"Just one, of course," Oropher answered, smirking. "But she might not notice."  
  
"Oh, that's very funny," said Glorfindel as the girls laughed. "Did you spend all day thinking of that, or did you hear it from somebody cleverer?"  
  
"It's a well known fact, isn't it? The Golodhrim have small birds. Everyone knows that. One of them was to lie with one of these fair girls here," and he nodded in their direction, "the girls would only be disappointed."  
  
The girl with the blue shawl smirked. "And we wouldn't if we went with you?"  
  
"Of course not," said Oropher, and he raised his hand to touch the opposite shoulder. "I do solemnly swear that I would leave you unable to get out of bed for nine days. Any Golodhren fellow and you'd be up and at your mending while he was still asleep."  
  
"I had two marriage proposals from Golodhren soldiers this summer," said the second girl. "Would've said yes, too, if they hadn't stank like old brandy. First good one that asks me, I'm marrying him. I don't care if he got no prick at all; I want a husband with money. Not some lolly tower boy."  
  
"You'll be sorry on your wedding night is all I say." Leaning back in his seat, he made a rude gesture with his hands before turning once again to Glorfindel. "Really, have you noticed at all? They do have small birds."  
  
"I hadn't noticed, no," said Glorfindel.   
  
"Is Fingon's big or small?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Would you say it's big or small? Small?"  
  
"I can't believe you want to know..." Hissing, he shook his head. "Entirely normal, neither bigger nor smaller than any other I've seen."  
  
"Bigger or smaller than yours?"  
  
"Oropher!"  
  
Oropher winked at the girls. "Just asking. Maybe you have a small Golodhren prick. Like the King. His is so small, it's barely the size of my thumb."  
  
"Really?" Glorfindel said tersely. "I would have thought he'd have a very large member. Since it does such an excellent job of filling that oversized mouth of yours."  
  
In the second it took the girls at the table to howl with laughter, Oropher's face turned a brilliant shade of pink. "Shut up," he muttered, and slid so low into his chair he nearly fell off.  
  
Smiling, Glorfindel picked up his veil and wrapped it over his carefully plaited hair to let the fringed end fall behind his shoulder. It made him look more like Amma than ever. With a grunt, he pulled it off. "I don't see why you don't have to be in this horrid play."  
  
Oropher narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, as if preparing to say something sharp to Glorfindel in return, but had no chance; at the tiring-room door, a great commotion sounded. The buzz of quiet conversation turned to a roar of panic as actors and dressers alike stumbled and collided, snatching up pots of makeup or searching for missing costume pieces amid the mess of garments carelessly strewn across the properties table. Fingon had arrived. Glorfindel supposed he was there to announce that final rehearsal would start straight away, but whatever he said was lost in the din of shouting.  
  
Fingon hardly looked like himself, dressed as he was in a surcoat and cape of bright purple trimmed with gold. His hair was loose, and he carried a silver staff. This staff, apart from being the symbol of kingship, also acted as a convenient tool for prodding stagehands out of the way as he worked his way back to where Glorfindel and Oropher sat. Oropher slipped quietly over to the girls' table. Glorfindel put his veil back on.  
  
"Are you prepared?" Fingon asked. "The herald from Vinyamar arrived not long ago, announcing that my brother's caravan will be here before sunset. This is our last rehearsal before we perform properly tonight. Have you learned those lines at the opening of act three that gave you such trouble yesterday?"  
  
"How fair the sky," Glorfindel recited, "to honour me with stars unnumbered of her joyous gaze: pure in truth and harmony to each of Eru's blessed songs. _But still_ , I say, this light is faint, when shines it contrasting to the radiance within my dearest love. _He only_ and no other is brightest to mine eyes, for _with this sight_ I look upon not only outward beauty manifest, but _purest spirit by magnificence clad_ : he is now the light of the world to me, and I to him."  
  
Fingon nodded. "Better. Much better. It will help if you understand the rhythm of the lines. Purest spirit clad in magnificence does not have the same rhythm as purest spirit by magnificence clad. This is why every word must be correct. If one line fails, the metre is put off, and a wrong sound comes up. Purest spirit by magnificence clad. Speak carefully."  
  
With a strangled sound of frustration, Glorfindel squirmed in his chair. He had to sit on his hands to keep from rubbing his eyes, which were starting to sting from the greasy paint around his lashes and the smoky lamps around the mirrors. "I'm no good at this," he said. "We both know I'm going to forget my lines and ruin everything, or say the wrong word and ruin everything, or falter in the dance and ruin everything. You should write me out of the play while you still have time."  
  
"I can't do that," said Fingon. "The play is _The Predestined Love of Finwë and Indis_. You are Indis. There cannot be a play about the predestined love of Finwë and nothing. Finwë alone is not a play."  
  
"What about Finwë and Míriel?"  
  
"You know full well that Míriel is dead before the opening of act one, and her role is performed by a long pillow covered with a sheet. There also cannot be a play about the predestined love of Finwë and a long pillow."  
  
"Why not?" Glorfindel asked. "You're Finwë. I think you could choose to fall in love with whatever you fancy. Indis is dull. Perhaps this play could be about the love of Finwë and Varda. That's what Sindarin plays do, you know; they make up new stories. It doesn't always have to be historically accurate."  
  
"Varda is played by the same boy who does Fëanáro. I don't believe it would be appropriate to stage a love affair with my son." Pausing, Fingon picked up three jewelled clips from the table, and fastened them to Glorfindel's veil. "Besides," he continued, "you are already in your Indis costume. And it would only confuse the other players if I replaced you with a pillow, and make the dance sequence very awkward. For the greater good, you must perform. Now stand up and follow me. We'll set a bad example if we're late to the stage." 

~

The last thing Turgon wished to do after sitting on a horse all day was to sit on a wooden chair and watch a play, but he was too well-mannered to say so. In truth, he had been expecting a more traditional welcome. A grand entrance with banners and trumpets and a full banquet had been on his mind for days.  
  
But on his arrival, he had been greeted by a very small party consisting of his father and a handful of captains in service of the crown. A small meal of cold foods had followed in the salon. There would be a proper hot supper after the play, but for the time being Turgon had to make do with bread and cheese. The unpleasant unexpectedness of the situation did not put him in a good mood. Furthermore, he was upset that Fingon was nowhere to be seen. Fingolfin had explained that Fingon was occupied by his final preparations at the stage site, but Turgon still felt strongly that his brother should at least have taken a moment to greet him. He had travelled all the way from the seaside, after all.  
  
Now, as he sat in the straight-backed wooden chair assigned him, he was beginning to wish that he could simply skip the play and even the hot supper altogether, and go straight to bed. It had been a long day of bouncing in a hard saddle under a hot sun. He was tired, sore, and in a foul mood. But he would sooner cut his own ears off than let anyone know this. So he sat with a safely neutral face while angrily clenching and twisting his toes inside his shoes, where nobody could see.  
  
Idril, at least, seemed happy. She had been given a summary of the play and its acts, written in Fingon's own hand on fine paper, and she discussed it aloud. "Look, Atya!" she said. "It says there will be a dance in act two, and songs in act three, and then a wedding in act four! I do look forward to seeing those. Do you suppose the bride will wear yellow or green? I hope green. And I hope the dance is pretty. I love watching dances." Idril sat on Turgon's left side. On her left were the captains of Vinyamar all in a line, so placed to prevent her from coming into contact with any of the rough characters of Eithel Sirion. This was one of Turgon's chief worries, and why he had wished to leave Idril safely at home with her aunt. Unfortunately, she had expressed a very loud desire to see her grandfather and uncle Fingon. And Idril usually ended up having her own way in these matters.  
  
"How long will the play be, I wonder?" she continued. "And do you think they will have real girls or just boys dressed up like girls as usual? I'd like to see real girls for once. Even if he is wearing a pretty green gown, the wedding won't be nearly as nice if it's a boy marrying Taror Finno."  
  
He had only kept one side of his mind on Idril's chatter as he glanced around the makeshift outdoor stage, but these words caught full hold of his attention, and he snapped his head back to look at her. "What? What do you mean, a boy marrying Findekáno?"  
  
"In the play, Atya," Idril said patiently. "It's a play about Finwë and Indis. Taror Finno wrote it. He's playing as Finwë, and Finwë marries Indis in act four. I was just thinking it would be nice if a girl were playing as Indis. I think I could do it."  
  
"Don't hold too much hope," said Turgon; "knowing your Taror Finno, it will indeed be a boy in a frock that he marries." His voice came across harsher than intended, and Idril blinked in surprise at the bitterness of his words. Inwardly, Turgon kicked himself. "I mean," he said more calmly, "it is not proper for young ladies to be on the stage where everyone can stare at them. It is better for boys to pretend. Findekáno knows this, so he will have put boys in his play."  
  
Idril stuck out her lower lip in a dangerous pout. "I'd be a better Indis than any silly boy."  
  
"I know, Plum Blossom, but it wouldn't be polite."  
  
On Turgon's right side sat his father, who had been given a second synopsis paper, though this one was neither as detailed nor as carefully written as Idril's. Turgon was about to ask if the play was meant to start soon when a sudden music arose from the benches to the left of the stage. It was a low sort of music, as one might hear on a sad occasion, and it coaxed a player in grey from behind the curtains.  
  
"The Queen is dead," said the player, which made Turgon frown. The first player on stage was supposed to be a narrator, welcoming the audience and summarising the story, not acting as if he were part of it. Everyone knew this; it was tradition.  
  
Idril smiled at the player and clasped her hands together. "Oh, good!"  
  
"Ere two days did she lie in a white way beneath fair boughs in the garden of Lórien, held fast by weariness, but no longer; the spirit at last hath her body fled. Wherefore came this shift of fortune, to cast a shadow upon our King and rend the pure bliss of this land? None yet can say. A failing of the world and marring of the age: we are all stricken by a heaviness in malice wrought. How changed is this life! We who once delighted in a humming note or simple star now find but grey sorrow. It is an evil time upon us. Our beloved Queen is dead."  
  
As he finished his speech, four more grey players stepped onto the stage. They carried a bier between them, draped in a white sheet and garlanded with flowers. The narrator spoke again. "Here is the body of Míriel, wife of Finwë, her spirit newly fled from its house. It will not fail, but lie unaltered through the gentle will of Irmo's hand."  
  
"Here is her body," said the porters, taking turns to speak. "We carry nothing more."  
  
"Fair in life and fair in death, but strangely touched and strange to see."  
  
"Míriel she is no more. An empty hold for the life now far from us."  
  
"Our Queen in memory only. We carry the past."  
  
What happened next was so unexpected that Turgon found himself suddenly clutching Idril's arm to protect her from the outburst. Behind the curtain, someone had started shouting in the worst way.   
  
"I will not! I will not! By what vile deceit doest thou play, to rob me of my final right by her?!"  
  
"Calm thyself, my boy," said a second voice; "the deed is done and her destiny sealed. The cries of none can wake the dead. Calm thyself."  
  
"I will not!"  
  
Roughly, the curtains parted, and a boy dressed in red and white ran to where the porters had set the bier. "Leave her be!" he told them. "Ye will not take my mother from me, vultures! Leave her, and get you out of this place! It is the land of my family; none but I and my father will touch foot to ground here! Away! By right of birth, I alone have authority to govern her care. I shall attend and carry her, unhindered by your clumsy hands and wooden feet, careless as wind and rain! Go!"  
  
The porters exited then, and the narrator, leaving Fëanor alone on the stage. He had fallen to his knees by Míriel's draped body. "Mother," he said quietly. "My mother... The lively spark hath fled for light unknown. Here we are left but with the cold and hollow shell. What good to me, a familiar body robbed of its familiar warmth? A mirror in mockery only. Her shape remaineth unaltered while breath and thought have gone. Shall I still love her, then, if to love her be to recklessly cling to shards devoid of hope? Is this shadow so unkind to coax the bitterness of a son's love abandoned and a mother's caress forgot? This I cannot do. Be she near or far, quick or gone, the burning star lieth ever within me. From her I gained the gift of the world; so too from me now shall she gain remembrance everlasting. I am her son, to vow now that I will honour the name of Míriel even in days unforeseeable at the utter ending of time, when all will know me for my devotion to her. My mother, too soon lost in cruel twists of Arda Marred..."  
  
At this, he lowered his head to touch the bier, and let out a long, mournful wail. It grew into a howl, so terribly desperate as he clenched his fists and pulled at his hair, channelling all his pain and fury into sound and violence. Turgon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I do not like this play," he whispered to his father. "It is much too realistic."  
  
But the following segment improved. Finwë, wearing proper purple and gold, appeared onstage to calm his son. He spoke a scene of mourning with Fëanor, followed by a long and sad soliloquy on the loss of his wife. He then pled his sorrow to the council of Valar, who took the form of masked and white-robed players on stilts. And when it was proclaimed that he would be given a chance to remarry, there was a brief exchange with two Vanyar. Turgon supposed they were Vanyar by the way they had false plaits of yellow wool showing from under their hoods. The end of this scene marked the end of act one, with Finwë invited to the palace of Ingwë on Oiolossë to recreate his spirit.  
  
"This is all rather condensed, don't you think?" Fingolfin asked as he applauded with the crowd. "Findekáno is taking some startling liberties with the historical timeline..."  
  
Turgon made a vague sort of hand gesture. "He is. But you must think, Atar: do you want this play to go on forever, relying on accurate history? No, I think shorter is nicer. Gets to the point more quickly. It's been nice and quick so far. I hope the other acts are the same."  
  
"I just want to see the dance and the wedding," said Idril. "I hope we don't have to wait too long for-"  
  
Her words were cut short by a crash of tambourines and the rolling music of pipes and harps. Around the stage, torches erupted in a sequence of flares, brilliantly illuminating the dancers as they whirled into place. All dressed in yellow and green, they were meant to be six Vanyarin girls, with hair and faces neatly hidden under veils. Idril grinned and clapped to see them.  
  
"Lovely!" she sighed. "Look at the pretty gowns!"  
  
It calmed Turgon to know that Idril, at least, was enjoying herself. For her sake, he could try to do the same. He shifted to be more comfortable in his seat and fixed his gaze on the stage. The dancers had arranged themselves into a line, and were executing some very complicated movements with their feet and arms. It looked fully Vanyarin to him. He recalled a memory from long ago, when he had seen such a dance performed. It had been at his wedding. Elenwë and her cousins had danced that way. Elenwë had stepped those steps.  
  
Even fifty years on, it still made his heart sick to think her name. Little Elenwë, who stood only as high as his upper arm, who was too shy to speak words like 'breast' or 'naked', who dutifully obeyed everything he said without question (even when he gave her contradictory nonsense directions just to see if she would refuse the request, which she never did), and who loved nothing better than to spoil Idril terribly with gifts and treats at every opportunity. This was the same Elenwë who grew too tired and weak on the ice. Despite her fear and loneliness and despair at leaving her family, she obediently followed him, as he knew she would, and he was powerless to change the progression of fate. He could only worry to himself as he felt her frail body grow even more insubstantial every time they shivered together on their thin mattress in a thinner tent.  
  
If he unfocused his eyes, he could imagine it was Elenwë and her cousins dancing again. He leaned back, suddenly lacking the will even to hold his head up, and let himself sink weakly down into his chair.  
  
"Atya?" Idril whispered. Her hand was on his. He had not even noticed the touch.  
  
He strained to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Itarillincya. Only tired."  
  
In return she said nothing, but frowned slightly, and shifted to hold protectively onto his arm with her head resting against his shoulder. He dropped his own head to lie on hers, his cheek against her hair.  
  
"Does the play make you sad?" she asked.  
  
"No," he said. "It only makes me remember."  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, though he would never say so aloud, he was halfway certain that Fingon had included this Vanyarin dance just to torment him. Worse still, it was working. His eyes began to play tricks. The veil of the dancer in front, loosely fastened at the start of the dance, had slipped back to reveal the gleam of golden hair. It was neither pale Sindarin silver nor a crude yellow wig, but true gold. Turgon blinked. A moment later the dancer had pulled her veil back into place, but it slipped again at the next turn. And so Turgon found himself mesmerised, not by the dance, but by the curious puzzle presented to him in trying to discern whether the dancer was in fact Vanyarin or if he simply had too frivolous an imagination. He had never been overly imaginative before. Nor had he ever seen such a hair colour in Hithlum, other than on the heads of his daughter and cousins. It was perplexing.  
  
The music came to a peak and five of the dancers took low poses on the floor, leaving the golden-haired girl to continue on her own. She wove between the seated few, clapping out the rhythm of her steps, until she had danced a full pattern and come back to the front of the stage. There, she carefully unpinned her slipping veil, and let the rest of her hair fall free. The lack of an awed gasp from the audience made Turgon certain he was imagining things. Had Fingon been able to somehow discover a Vanyarin girl for his play, everyone watching would have cheered at the miracle. Instead they sat, mildly entertained, as the girl who was clearly Indis gestured for her dancers to stand.  
  
Leaning toward his father, Turgon very quietly asked, "Who is that?"  
  
"Laurefindil," Fingolfin whispered. "He is retainer to Findekáno"  
  
"Vanyarin?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Turgon sat back as feelings of both relief and disappointment rolled through his chest. Of course the player was a Vanyarin boy; he could see it now with a mind unclouded by wishful thoughts. A boy, not a girl. The nose was a bit long, and the jaw somewhat wide, and the eyes a little deep. Then the boy spoke, and the illusion was betrayed entirely by a voice that strained too much to sound light in an unnaturally higher pitch.  
  
"On greensward here, beyond the reach of judging eyes and laws at hand, behold: a site for freedom frivolous and mirth without a guiding word. Here awhile will we stay, unbonded by decorum proper as it ruleth minds of gold, for dance and play more suited to our light desires. I shed my fetters; so, alike, shall ye." With a dismissive flick of the arm, she tossed aside her veil and let it fall in a crumple on the stage floor.  
  
"But mistress," spoke one of the dancers, "what shall we do, if we be seen?"  
  
Indis laughed. "If we be seen? Who but we amid these fair hills walketh? There sit no searching eyes on yonder branch or stone, to see our peace. I say: here we are free from heavy thoughts and walls that words construct about our feet. Why should we turn our faces from the light of truth? In this place we have no fear of darkened minds pulled to narrow roads and thralls in blind obedience made."  
  
"But were we in the city-" a dancer began.  
  
"We are not," said Indis.  
  
"But were your uncle here-" said another  
  
"He is not."  
  
"And were another to chance upon you unexpected?" asked a new voice.  
  
Fingon-as-Finwë had slipped, silently unnoticed, into the shadow of a false tree at the side of the stage. As he stepped forward, the dancers shrieked and fled, clutching their veils and covering their faces. Only Indis remained. She watched him with a wisp of a smile.  
  
"And who are ye, my lord?" she asked slowly.  
  
"A traveller only, come up the way to Oiolossë from Tirion afar. Have ye no fear. To the favoured walls of Ingwë's golden house I shall pass, not to hinder nor impede you. But first to tell, my lady: why came ye here, skirting to this high, untended road, if sought ye privacy from casting eyes? We travellers are about."  
  
"I am so informed."  
  
"Informed by whom? And why, if informed, do ye linger still?"  
  
"By mine uncle. And why? Earlier he did tell me how the king of Tirion is to come today by this road. At these words I was full resolved to find you here." She stepped closer, and lowered her head. "I know you by sight, my lord Finwë."  
  
"That ye do," he answered. "And to consider now, I too can name the face before me: Indis daughter of Izeldë, who is sister to our King. Fair years have passed since last I saw you."  
  
"The passing years are neither fair nor kind, when such a gap dividing standeth between each noble house."  
  
"Ye speak high truth. The parting hath been too long."  
  
"And I have paused too long," said Indis. "Here I came to dance, not loose words at nobles weary on the road. By Manwë's own grace, will ye stand you aside? I dance on this line."  
  
Bowing, Finwë stood aside, and Indis began to dance. It was not the same pattern dance as before, but something slower and smoother: something sensual. The music came up softly and built in a gradual swell of hollow hand-drums and low pipes. Indis dipped and turned. She let her head fall back, golden hair swaying, but seemed always to keep the dangerous chain of eye contact with Finwë. No matter where she moved, her face was turned to him. She stepped farther, and nearer, and nearer still, until Finwë's arm shot out like a striking serpent to catch her around the waist. Indis said nothing, no affronted complaint or cry of surprise, but gave a lazy half smile. Her body was pressed flat against Finwë's. They began to dance together.  
  
Finwë spoke then, some words on the enlightenment found in foreign travels, but Turgon refused to hear. He had ceased to care if he appeared offended or rude in front of the entire court of Hithlum; this play was a disgrace. It warped the noble truth of history into something wicked and self-serving. It abused the name of a great man for a shallow purpose. It displayed baseness, sin, and treachery for all to see.  
  
With his arms crossed sullenly across his chest, Turgon lowered his head and looked down at his lap. He would not watch. He could not support such a thing. In the corner of his eye, he could see Fingolfin shift uncomfortably. The rustling of clothing on seats behind him confirmed that others watching felt the same way. But on his left, Idril sat still. She had slid so far forward in her chair that she was perched only on the edge, leaning as far as she could toward the stage as she watched eagerly. A hot whirl of rage at Fingon's audacity began to grow in Turgon's chest.  
  
"Come, Itarillë," he whispered as he tugged at her arm. "I think we've seen enough of this play."  
  
She swatted his hand away. "Shh. No. I like it so far."  
  
"I know, and that is why I want you to come with me now."  
  
"Atya, shh! I'm watching!"  
  
"Itarillë..." Standing, he placed one hand on each of her shoulders to nudge her out of the chair.  
  
"No!" she shouted. Immediately, Turgon could feel the gaze of many on him, as the rest of the audience turned to see the commotion. On stage, Fingon-Finwë and his boy-Indis faltered in their dance as they, too, looked to him and Idril. He returned Fingon's glance with an even stubbornness. He would not be made the fool to sit through this indecency. Then he raised his head, standing tall as he could, and quit the stage site with the eyes of all on his back.


	2. Predestined

The tiring room buzzed with the twin voices of accomplishment and speculation after the show. Many went out of their way to pat each other on the back over a job well done, while the others traded theories on why exactly the guest of honour had disappeared not even halfway through. As Fingon had interest in neither being told once again how marvellous he had been nor answering questions about his brother's poor behaviour, he fully intended to leave for the peace of his bedroom as quickly as possible. Which, he found, was not very quickly at all. Apart from the crush of bodies stepping into his way and making movement impossible, he would not leave without Glorfindel. And Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen. He could have been by the stage still, or behind a dressing curtain, or out the side receiving praises. Fingon, stuck in the middle of the swell of confused players, costumers, and stagehands, could get to none of these places. He was sorry to have left his Finwë Stick backstage.  
  
It took a good amount of nudging and asking, followed by shoving and shouting, to search the area. Glorfindel could be found in none of the places. Grudgingly, he left and headed for the tower. There was little time left in which to change his clothes and wash the paint from his face before he would be expected to formally greet Turgon at the excessive reception his father had planned. He took the stairs to the fifth floor in a double stride and threw open the bedroom door.  
  
Glorfindel lay on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, passively staring up at the canopy. Fingon stopped abruptly where he stood.  
  
"Oh; you're in here. I was looking for you."  
  
"I came to get away from the crowds," Glorfindel answered. He spoke to the ceiling and did not move. "The noise is terrible."   
  
"Yes, well, expect more. The banquet starts directly and we need to go back down for that."  
  
"Mm."  
  
Fingon watched him a moment, but Glorfindel gave no indication of leaving the bed. "You should change out of your Indis costume."   
  
"I don't want to go to the banquet."  
  
"Neither do I," said Fingon, "but duty stands above pleasure. Go change your clothes."  
  
Reluctantly and with a pained sigh, Glorfindel sat upright on the bed. He remained there a moment, paused sullenly and staring at the floor. But before Fingon had a chance to speak again, they were interrupted from behind by the deliberate clearing of a throat.  
  
"Ah. Here you are; I've been looking all over."  
  
Fingon allowed himself a momentary scowl and a curse word under his breath before turning around to face his brother. "Turno."  
  
"What are you doing up here?" Turgon asked. "Atar is worrying over you."  
  
"I was delayed at the stage site. Unable to find my friend Lauron, here." He gestured to Glorfindel on the bed  
  
A hardened, grey cast came over Turgon's face as he registered the scene before him. "I was unaware that the Royal House of Finwë now permitted Rokothin courtesans. I thought that was a strictly Vanyarin vice?"  
  
Clenching his jaw, Fingon forced a smile. "You're very clever. Only a truly great mind could consistently come to such ludicrous conclusions. But if you recall, our Lauron was in the play. You may have been able to recognise him more easily, had you not walked out at the beginning of act two. He played in the role of Indis. And so he is wearing his Indis costume still."  
  
"He is in your bed."  
  
" _On_ my bed, Turno. He is sitting _on_ my bed." He gave Turgon his most innocent look, which earned only a disgusted sneer in return. "For the moment," he added.  
  
"You're dismissed," Turgon said to Glorfindel, his voice curt and clipped. "I would speak to my brother in private."  
  
Without looking up at either of them, Glorfindel stood and crossed the room. He paused only briefly at the door, whispering words in a voice that only Fingon could hear; "What's _Rokothin_?"  
  
"Later," said Fingon. And he ushered Glorfindel quickly out into the corridor, shutting the door as he did. Then he and Turgon were left alone.  
  
Turgon, he saw, was making a point of looking about the bedroom with a disapproving frown. "Is this honestly how you live?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Rather sparse, isn't it?"  
  
Fingon shrugged. There was no sense in arguing. Turgon never had never agreed with his preferences on matters of lifestyle, and never would. He turned his back on his brother and went to the bathing room, where a bowl of water, now tepid, waited on the dressing table.  
  
With the sigh of the self-styled martyr, Turgon followed. "I need to talk to you, Findekáno. And I want you to listen to me. I'm worried."  
  
"Really?" Fingon asked. He splashed water over his face, and reached for the dish of soap. The stage paint would require some work to remove. "About what?"  
  
"Your moral failings."  
  
"Oh. Of course. Do go on."  
  
"This is not a joke," Turgon said. He had taken on a most serious expression, and Fingon, observing him through the mirror, found it difficult not to laugh. "That play was a disgrace and you know it as well as I."  
  
"Turno, if you're upset by the possibility of me being involved with Lauron..."  
  
"That's not what worries me."  
  
"What, then, that he was dressed as a woman in the play tonight?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So, what?"  
  
Turgon's scowl took on an uglier shape, and he crossed his arms across his chest as if to build a barrier between himself and Fingon's corrupting influence. "The _Predestined_ Love of Finwë and Indis," he spat. "All that speech about _Arda Marred_ until the _end of time_ , and the _light of truth_. I am not as ignorant as you think I am, and I know exactly what you're doing."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"Hiding heretical propaganda behind obscenity disguised as an historical play," said Turgon. "You might as well have called the play _The Predestined Blasphemy of Findekáno and Maitimo, and How They Purport to Have Done The Right Thing at Alqualondë_. I don't suppose you thought anybody save the most naïve would think your play was only about Finwë and Indis. Anyone with the least bit of sense would be able to see that the historical premise was only a means by which you could safely carry out indecent acts with that Vanyarin boy and stage a mock wedding. But you were also sure they'd be too dazzled by the scandal to see the true message hidden underneath. And I thought that predestiny nonsense died with Fëanáro."  
  
Fingon wiped his face with a towel and turned to face his brother fully. So Turgon had been paying sharp attention, after all. "Predestination was never Fëanáro's idea."  
  
"Then it was Maitimo, but it doesn't matter who-"  
  
"No," Fingon said, cutting Turgon's words short. "It was neither Fëanáro nor Maitimo, nor anyone else, but I. I was the one who introduced them to the ideas that later became our philosophy. So please, do not let bitterness toward our cousins interfere with your feelings. I was the one who started it, not they."  
  
It was somehow satisfying to see the conflict pass over Turgon's features as he struggled to reconcile his previous hatred with this new admission, but Fingon fought down a smirk and kept his own features safely blank. "I can explain it to you, if you like," he continued, "though you will have to set your prejudices aside. Will you listen to me? When I am finished, if you still take exception, we can discuss it. But for now, will you listen?"  
  
"I suppose I should," Turgon answered quietly.  
  
"Then have a seat."  
  
Turgon took the chair beside the dressing table, folding his hands tightly in his lap as he did. He was clearly nervous, which meant things were progressing in a way he had not anticipated. It would make Fingon's argument that much easier. He began softly.  
  
"I've never spoken to you about this, because when the key events took place, you were only a child. I'm sorry I didn't, because I'm certain that, had I made an effort to include you then, you would not be so firmly set against me now." He paused to give Turgon an opportunity to counter, but nothing came.  
  
"Do you remember when I went away to Tol Eressëa? You were what, thirty or so? I was gone for six years. Do you remember when I returned? Did you notice any difference?"  
  
"I remember the day," said Turgon. "Ammë made a great fuss over you, and everything was Findekáno this and Findekáno that. I remember that before you left, you were always trying to get me to fight you or do stupid things like jump from the balcony or eat burnt scraps. When you returned, you seemed so much older, and hardly spoke to me any more. You spent all your time with Fëanáro's sons. And you gave me all your clothes, which Ammë made me wear even though they didn't fit very well." This last memory coaxed a hint of a smile to his lips. "All of your coloured clothes. You only wore black after that."  
  
Fingon grinned. "I forgot about the clothes."  
  
"Atar was furious. I remember him yelling about how I shouldn't wear your old things like a commoner. He accused Ammë of trying to turn me into you."  
  
"Well, who can blame her, if she had a choice between one of you or two of me..."  
  
"This is why I hate you," said Turgon, though his smile had grown to be wide and bright.  
  
"Anyhow. I went to Tol Eressëa as a stupid, spoiled prince. I forced Ta to let me go there, just because I wanted to live by the sea. I was supposed to live by Taror Arafinwë's family and learn manners or something, but what I learned instead, from the common people, was far more influential."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"An entirely new way of viewing the world," Fingon said. "Think of it. The Noldor and Vanyar, for their entire history in Aman, have been led by the Valar. Everything of theirs, from culture to law, has been subject to Valarin interference. They live where the Valar tell them to live, act as the Valar tell them to act, and know what the Valar wish them to know. And some say this is fine, because the Valar know best, but what if that isn't true? And there you have the Telerin philosophy.  
  
"The Teleri _question_ the Valar. They weigh advice rather than blindly obey. Tol Eressëa itself stands as a symbol of Telerin independent thought: it was meant to reach the mainland, but they judged otherwise and requested to have it left separate. And outside of that tight sphere of Valarin influence, the Teleri of Tol Eressëa especially can judge the world more objectively. I came across numerous groups, all with their own particular ideologies. One drew my attention more than the others. This group held more radical ideas, but everything they said made so much sense to me. Their basic beliefs had been in place since before the departure from Cuiviénen, and have only been strengthened over the years as the true nature of Arda and the Valar becomes apparent."  
  
"But how is that possible?" interrupted Turgon. "At Cuiviénen, how could they possibly have any ideas about the Valar?"  
  
"Those were added later. At first, they knew only that the world is inherently an evil place, created by evil forces. It was considered a ridiculous notion back then, but is now widely accepted as the truth."  
  
"No, the current truth is that the world was _changed_ by evil, not created."  
  
"Essentially the same," said Fingon. "If Melkor changed the world, he changed it to suit his desires, and it is now a thing that he created through his destruction. In either scenario, we live in a world that is of an evil design. Where this Telerin belief differs most from convention, though, is in the idea that the Valar have become part of this evil. Everything that exists in Arda Marred is itself marred. Every person is born with a corrupted spirit. It is only though personal sacrifice and true dedication to goodness that one can be released from the cycle of the world. Otherwise, even in the event of death, you are reborn to another life of sin. Not even the Valar are exempt. They too must strive against evil, if they wish to be freed at the Ending of the World. In the Telerin tradition, Ulmo is the one Vala who can be trusted and revered for his goodness, because he is far removed from the influence of the rest."  
  
Raising his eyebrows, Turgon blinked. "Ulmo?"  
  
"They think so. Personally, I believe the one to be trusted is Manwë, as he alone knows Eru's mind and will. The others cannot be. They jealously keep their secrets and wish only to control the Eldar. This is what I thought for myself after leaving Tol Eressëa. I was surprised to learn that the Noldorin adherents to this belief are of the same mind." He nodded at Turgon's frown of confusion. "Yes, there are Noldorin believers, though I never met any until after I returned from Tol Eressëa already converted. They call themselves _Manairi_. So I have considered myself a _Manairon_ for all these years. Not a very good one, but... this is how Predestination appeared."  
  
"From your failure as a Manairon."  
  
"In a way," said Fingon. "Not mine, specifically, but all of ours: Maitimo, Macalaurë, Curufinwë... we all shattered one of the most important pillars of our faith at Alqualondë, which is to treat all life with great respect. They were in this with me, yes. They always called me their Prophet; I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I told them what to do and they were thick enough to listen. But after that battle, once it was all over and we realised what we had done, Macalaurë was out of his mind with grief and the others were near to it. I remember Russa screaming at me about how we had all destroyed ourselves. So to calm them, I did the first thing that came to mind and started talking about what we decided to call Predestination. I told them that the atrocities could be overlooked at judgement because we were acting on a greater cause. We had been predestined by Eru through the blessing of Manwë to be the ones who would rid the world of evil and thereby bring about the Ambar-metta, when all would be released from the torture of physical life and ascend into the heavens to be one with the music of creation. Until that point, when our task was complete, we were free to act by any means necessary to achieve the goal."  
  
"And... they agreed with this?" Turgon asked. The incredulity in his voice mirrored his shocked expression.  
  
"Of course they did. I was their glorious Prophet, wasn't I?"  
  
"And they never questioned you? Never questioned their own actions?" He paused only long enough to rub his eyes in frustration. "Oh, you're right... they always listened to you. No matter what nonsense you said. In that case, how could you talk them into something so outrageous? That you yourself didn't even believe?"  
  
Fingon smiled faintly. "I didn't believe it then. But I do now."  
  
"What? Why?" Agitated, Turgon stood and began to pace. "You just told me you invented it to assuage Maitimo's guilt after what you did in Alqualondë! How can you possibly believe something you made up out of nowhere like that?"  
  
"All beliefs are made up by somebody, Turno."  
  
"But yours is clearly ridiculous! You made it up to absolve yourself of the responsibility of your past and future misdeeds, and you pass it off as some Prophet nonsense! This is exactly the heresy I was talking about!"  
  
"I can prove its truth," said Fingon.  
  
"How? How can you possibly prove something like that?"  
  
"Don't you think," he began slowly, "that had we not been somehow blessed, Manwë would have forsaken us at the cliff face? Maitimo could have been left to die a long and tortured death, left there to pay for what he had done. I was certain that's what would happen. I prayed to Manwë to let me kill him and end his suffering, and Manwë could have just as easily broken my arrows or sent them crooked to miss their target. But instead, one of His own eagles saved Maitimo's life. That was when I knew I was right. We are Predestined. We can do no wrong, because our role in life is to fulfil a greater good."  
  
Turgon sneered. "And you think that idea of blamelessness is safe in the minds of people like Tyelcormo and Carnistir."  
  
"No, you misunderstand. This is not an excuse to indulge in evil deeds. One must still try to always abide by the rules of the Manairi. All I am saying is that in the event that something seemingly evil must be done in the course of pursuing the greater good, it is allowable for those who are Predestined to do it. Think of this, Turno. You are the King of Vinyamar. You can do anything you wish. But you _choose_ to do what is best for the people. Not always what is best for all people, but best for most. Just because you know you _can_ by law order your subjects to wear only red or eat no meat doesn't mean that you _will_ , but, should it ever be necessary for everyone in Vinyamar to wear red, you know you have the authority to order this. Just as I could take up my sword and kill you right now and still be innocent in the judgement of Manwë. But as your death would serve no purpose, I shan't."  
  
"Flawed logic," said Turgon. "And heresy all the same to think that Manwë would condone this behaviour."  
  
Sighing, Fingon rubbed his hands over his eyes and forehead. "How can you consider anything to be heresy these days, when everyone has rejected the laws of the West? A great part of our reason for leaving was to be free of Valarin meddling, if you recall."  
  
"I have rejected nothing."  
  
"Well," said Fingon. "Good for you. You have your beliefs, and I have mine. Must we argue about this? Can't we just forget it, go have supper, and continue hating each other on a non-theological level? Like good brothers do?"  
  
Turgon looked away in time to nearly hide an unwanted smile, but not entirely; Fingon could see it flicker.  
  
"Ta is waiting?"  
  
"On the balcony off his private stairwell," Turgon answered.  
  
"Lead the way. If we are lucky, he will see you first and not notice that I haven't had time to change out of my Finwë costume until it's too late."  
  
"You don't want to take another few moments to change your clothing?"  
  
Fingon laughed. "In the inevitable stuffy heat of that banquet hall, I'd choose thin stage purple over a heavy court outfit in an instant. Now you've given me a very convenient excuse to do so. Go."

~

Glorfindel leaned against the locked door, fitted the key into the keyhole, and paused. The drug was beginning to take effect. Already, it crept through his veins like spidery legs, making the night seem a little brighter and the stones a little warmer. It had a comforting, soothing feel, better than milk and nutmeg. His mind glowed under its influence.  
  
The little silver bottle, hastily stuffed up his sleeve as he heard Fingon approach, sat heavy and hot against his skin. With a shake of his arm, it fell down into his waiting hand. He opened the top, held it up to the torchlight, and peered inside. It was over half gone. Only a few drops each time he took it from Fingon's bedside drawer, but those drops were growing more frequent. He had used it twice in the past six days alone. Sooner or later, Fingon would notice how much was missing. But he pushed that thought away, beneath the cloak of serenity, and turned the key.  
  
This key to the secondary stairway was one of the more useful things Fingon had given him in the past year. Unlike the main stairway, which wound as a wide spiral up the south side of the tower, the secret, locked stairway had been built for Fingolfin's personal use and connected the fifth floor corridor with a private room between the salon and dining hall. It zigzagged down from landing to landing on the north side, with a small sitting room and balcony on one of those landings somewhere in the vicinity of the third floor. According to Fingolfin, Glorfindel was not allowed to use it. This never stopped him. Fingon had given him the a key, and he abused the privilege at every opportunity.  
  
He locked the door again behind him before starting down the stairs with one hand brushing the wall for balance. The drug made his head light and his legs clumsy. On the first landing, he stumbled. On the third, he tripped and scraped the side of his thumb on a rough stone. Then he kept both hands and one shoulder pressed against the wall, sliding carefully downward, until he came to the larger landing with its sitting room and balcony. A single figure stood silhouetted in the balcony doorway.  
  
Fingolfin turned his head. "Laurefindil," he said softly. "What a surprise."  
  
"Oh!" said Glorfindel, and the word rang loudly between his ears. "I... oh. I'll go... I'll go back up." He looked back up at the stairs behind him, which seemed suddenly to be many more going up than there had been coming down.  
  
"No no, I'm not angry at you for using this stairway. Though I've told you before..." He cleared his throat. "Come here."  
  
Fingolfin held out his hand to beckon, and Glorfindel came.  
  
"Are my sons on their way down?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded. "I think so. They were discussing... or about to. In private. Without me."  
  
"Then I fear we will be waiting a very long time," said Fingolfin. "Those two could argue the colour of the grass for hours."   
  
With a shake of the head, Fingolfin returned to the balcony. The jewels on his silver chain collar glittered in the moonlight. Like a true king. In that instant, Glorfindel could only watch him, transfixed. He was decorated with stars.  
  
"Do you plan to stand in there, or won't you come out to the balcony?"  
  
"Oh... yes... you're right." Keeping his eyes on Fingolfin's glittering back, Glorfindel shuffled forward.  
  
"It is a lovely night. No clouds."  
  
"Hum."  
  
"And you are still in your play costume."  
  
Glorfindel looked down at himself. "Yes. I think... Findekáno wanted me to change. But I didn't."  
  
"I can see that," Fingolfin said. He held Glorfindel in a careful gaze, bright eyes flickering between face and clothing, and made a hissing sound in his teeth. "You do make a good stage girl. Though you look little like my mother."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't apologise. I would be more disturbed if you did look like her."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Did you like the play, Laurefindil?"  
  
"No," Glorfindel answered immediately. "I mean... No, I do mean no." There was no sense, as far as he could see, in pretending otherwise.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I am not a girl. I don't like being a girl."  
  
"Then why did you not change your clothes immediately?" Fingolfin asked.  
  
Glorfindel held up his arms, examining them in the pale light of the stars. He glanced at his feet. Everything was as it had been before. He was no different. "Wearing a frock won't make me into a girl. It hasn't yet. You have to walk to the Western edge of the world to do that and make a prayer at the black ocean. Unless you have done something to anger the Valar and they decide to change your body... But I think this only happens in stories."  
  
"I see," said Fingolfin. "Is this a common Vanyarin belief? I heard it once before, this tale of the black ocean journey, but thought the man must have been mad. He certainly looked it. This was years ago, one of the Rokothi at Ingwë's-"  
  
" _Rokothin_!" Glorfindel hissed. "That is what Turukáno called me! What does it mean?"  
  
"Rokothi? I believe it was originally a derogatory term, and they call themselves something else, but Rokothi became the common word used to describe Vanyarin men who dressed and acted as women. Some of them say that they are women wrongly born into the bodies of men, while others claim to be a third gender entirely, neither male nor female. Many of them float about in the court of Oiolossë and have high-born... ah... patrons."  
  
"No, that's impossible." Shaking his head, Glorfindel stepped back. "It's illegal. They'd be killed. I know this."  
  
"They exist outside the law," said Fingolfin. "Under protection of the King. Because they insist that they are women born into the wrong bodies, they are treated as women. They are not truly men; therefore, they are not subject to men's laws."  
  
Glorfindel took another step back, stumbling as he did. His legs felt suddenly weaker and his head even lighter, buzzing with a new kind of energy that he suspected had nothing to do with the drug. Fingolfin's words had an even stronger effect. "You mean... all I have to do... to not be killed... is wear a dress and pretend I think I'm a girl?!"  
  
Fingolfin frowned. "Who is going to kill you, Laurefindil?"  
  
"Judges. In Valmar. I mean, when I go back there, they will arrest me and kill me for being sinful here. I told Amma I'd go back one day and I don't want to die when I do. If they find out, they will kill me."   
  
"Ah."  
  
"But if I say I was this Rokothin while I was here..."  
  
"Then you will avoid any future execution. I understand."  
  
"What must I do?"  
  
"Do?"  
  
"To become Rokothin," Glorfindel said. He came closer again, until he stood nearly pressed against Fingolfin's arm. The possibility of life made him dizzy. How simple an answer it was: merely pretending to be a woman. "What must I do? I have never seen them. How do they act? How do they dress?"  
  
"They dress in women's clothing. Of those I have seen, the wealthier ones could sometimes be rather outlandish. But the poorer sorts might be dressed as you are now. They line their eyes and paint their lips as women do, as you have done for the play. And they act in the manner of other unmarried ladies of the court. As to what you must do... That, I do not know. I suppose you need only say you are a Rokothë to be one. And then..." His words hitched for a brief pause. "And then request the protection of the King."  
  
Glorfindel looked up to meet Fingolfin's brilliant eyes. They were fixed on him, gleaming with a strange intensity even in the dark of night. "You are the King here."  
  
"I am," said Fingolfin. His voice was hardly more than a whisper on shallow breath. "That is very convenient. Would you like the protection of the King, my pretty Laurefindil?"  
  
"Yes..."  
  
Slowly, he reached out to run the back of a finger along Glorfindel's cheek with a ghost of a touch. "Then you will have it always."  
  
It felt like drawn-out minutes, but must have been only a moment or two: Glorfindel found himself frozen in Fingolfin's keen gaze. The King's eyes shone so brightly, like shards of ice in the winter sun. He had the eyes of a Vala. Glorfindel shuddered at the sight. Some exquisite power hid there, and fierce secrets. It was terrifying to look too long, and impossible not to.  
  
Fingolfin broke away first. "And here are my sons," he said loudly. "Good. Our guests are waiting in the banquet hall."  
  
Glorfindel turned, and saw indeed that Fingon and Turgon had come down the stairs. He had not heard them at all.  
  
"I am sorry, Atar," said Turgon. "We didn't mean to keep you waiting."  
  
"It is no worry at all. Laurefindil and I had a grand chat about the play. Didn't we?"  
  
Weakly, Glorfindel nodded. He looked back to Fingolfin, back to his bright eyes, but the King had turned his splendour toward his sons only.  
  
"Follow me, Turukáno," Fingolfin said; "I will show you the way. This stairway ends directly beside the hall."  
  
Turgon followed down the stairs. Glorfindel watched them go, and, as he waited for Fingon to pass, noticed for the first time that one more figure had joined the procession. Close beside Fingon was a young woman with golden hair, dressed in pink. His heart gave a sudden jolt. She was the one he had seen at the play, in those few stolen seconds he had spent squinting into the darkness of the audience. Whatever imagined beauty he had bestowed upon her then became a crude understatement in the face of the truth that now stood before him. Everything about her, from her demurely downcast eyes to the tiny slippers peeking out from beneath her skirt, was perfect. She crossed the landing as gracefully as the wind.  
  
"You did not change your clothes."  
  
Glorfindel started at the sound of Fingon's voice, suddenly at his side. He looked to Fingon, but quickly back at the girl in pink. She had already halfway disappeared down the stairway.  
  
"And that is my niece," Fingon said, "so you would do well to dismiss whatever thoughts may be running through your head."  
  
"She is beautiful," Glorfindel murmured. "Like the light from Varda's own hands. I think she is a star-spirit."  
  
A long moment passed, and Fingon only stared at him in a strange way, harsh and scrutinising. "What's wrong with you?" he finally asked.  
  
"Wrong?"  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I am standing by you."  
  
"Why? What are you waiting for?"  
  
"I..." He was there for some reason. Somewhere, far back in his mind, he knew he once had a purpose. He had something to do. "I can't remember. Where are we going?"  
  
Fingon scowled. " _I_ am going to the banquet-"  
  
"The banquet! Yes. With your father. He was just here. I remember now."  
  
" _You_ are going to your room, to lie down. You are in no state to do anything else. Go back upstairs, go to your room, and stay there. I have no time for this nonsense tonight."  
  
He grabbed Glorfindel by the wrist, jerking him toward the stairway that led back up. But the pull loosened Glorfindel's grip on the little silver vial that still rested in his hand, letting it slip through his fingers and drop to the floor, where it rolled over the stones and came to rest directly in Fingon's path. Fingon bent to retrieve it. He did not immediately stand again, but curled his fist around the vial, as if to crush it. When he did stand, he kept his eyes on his hard fist and spoke in a cold tone.  
  
"And here I was thinking you'd merely been given some farm-brew drink by your Sindarin friend after the show. How much did you take?"  
  
Glorfindel, cringing at the sound, could only whisper his answer. "Just two drops."  
  
"One drop is enough to be diluted in water to mix two doses. More than that affects the mind adversely. This is a potent medicine and is not to be used carelessly!"  
  
"I'm sorry-"  
  
"No," Fingon interrupted, "I'm sorry. For ever introducing you to this poison in the first place, and for not leaving it in the keeping of Marderya, where it should be. Now I would ask you how many times you've taken this and when, but judging from the weight of the bottle, I don't think I want to know. Just go to bed, Laurefindil. We'll discuss this in the morning. Good night."  
  
"Finno, I'm sorry," Glorfindel said again, but Fingon had already reached the stairs to follow after his father and brother.  
  
Alone, Glorfindel lowered himself to the floor. He sat hugging his knees up to his chest. His head hurt suddenly, and his eyes, and both felt worse for the knowledge that Fingon was angry. Morning and discussion would come too soon.  
  
But then, morning also brought the possibility of seeing the girl in pink once more. There by the stairs, even if only briefly, something extraordinary had happened. An aspect of fate had fallen into place. At a single sight, Glorfindel's path had shifted toward a new goal. If he concentrated on this, he could almost entirely forget about Fingon's inevitable wrath. He needed to seek out the girl in pink. He had found his future.


	3. Frills

He had known from the moment he first saw her that she was the girl he wanted to marry. And now, Glorfindel had a name to attach to his vision of feminine perfection.  
  
"Itarillë will not be joining us," Turgon said as he entered the salon. "She was having her hair washed after all the dust and travelling yesterday, and then she wished to explore the gardens."  
  
Itarillë. It had a perfect sound, delicate and pure, that made Glorfindel smile despite the news that his reason for following Fingon to the salon in the first place would not be making an appearance. He had discovered her name. It was enough to satisfy him for the time being.  
  
He sat beside Fingon on one of the salon's cushioned benches as they waited for two of Turgon's men to carry in a large travelling chest. Directly across from him sat Turgon, who artfully avoided so much as a passing glance in Glorfindel's direction, and to Turgon's right was Fingolfin. Fingolfin, to Glorfindel's relief, made no reference to their conversation of the previous evening, nor did he act as if anything had occurred between them. Similarly, he had received no discussion from Fingon. Fingon said nothing as they made their way to the salon, save a brief comment on the day's agenda, and Glorfindel did not press his luck by asking any questions. He gladly accepted Fingon's silence as forgiveness.  
  
At Fingolfin's right sat a man Glorfindel generally went out of his way to avoid: the man who had stepped in to fill the position of favoured attendant after Celeiros' spectacular downfall. He was called Rodhalair. Glorfindel had seen him about the castle, usually with Fingolfin, and assumed that he was a Noldorin lord. Oropher was under the same impression, guessing that his name was actually Rosselairo, and that Rodhalair was only a poorly-though-out attempt at Sindarinisation. But as they sat in the salon, Fingolfin formally introduced him to Turgon as Rodhalair of Doriath, an ambassador appointed by Thingol to keep watch over the actions of the Noldor in the north and ensure quality of life for northern Sindarin citizens. Whether or not he ever did this was unclear. He held, in Glorfindel's experience, a very Noldorin level of respect for the Sindarin natives, going so far as to treat Oropher with outright hostility the few times their paths had crossed. The one duty he seemed to have performed with any regularity was to act as Fingolfin's personal language tutor. Fingolfin, it turned out, could speak excellent Doriathrin. Unfortunately, the language was so far removed from the local Northern dialect as to be mostly incomprehensible.  
  
Only a quarter or less of Rodhalair's speech made any sense to Glorfindel. The words he spoke to Turgon as they sat in the salon sounded like a strange hybrid of Sindarin and Quenya, with none fully belonging to either language. Some sounded recognisable, but whether they were actually the words Glorfindel thought them to be, or simply similar by coincidence, was impossible to tell from the twisted sentence structure. The only certain thing was that Rodhalair began many of his thoughts with, "In Doriath." It was likely that whatever followed was either a complaint or thinly-veiled insult.  
  
Fingolfin's words were easier to follow. He spoke Doriathrin for Rodhalair's benefit, but coloured the sounds with a familiar Noldorin accent. "I am honoured that you thought to bring me such a gift, Turukáno," he said as the chest was placed before his chair. "Shall I open it?"  
  
"Yes, of course," Turgon answered. "I am eager for you to see the evidence of our prosperity on the coast."  
  
"I am eager to see as well." He lifted the lid, and began pulling items from the tightly packed interior. "Ah! How lovely. Some of your excellent wine."  
  
"That is not all, naturally," said Turgon. "We also brought several barrels, which I ordered taken down to your cellars. This is only a small amount in a nice jug. I thought we could have it with our dinner today."  
  
"That's very thoughtful of you, Turukáno. I do appreciate a good, proper wine. Here we have only those black stone grapes that grow wild by the river, and they make an inferior drink." He reached back into the chest. "And vinegar! Good, good."  
  
"There is a full barrel of that in the cellars, as well."  
  
"In Doriath," Rodhalair said in a bored voice, "such things are plentiful, and are hardly considered luxuries." At least this was what Glorfindel assumed he said.  
  
"Well, we must all make do in the north here," said Fingolfin. He continued pulling things out of the chest: boxes with jewellery, coloured candles, rolls of fabric, and something made of black fur that was likely a present for Fingon. Fingolfin smiled. "You seem to be doing quite well out west."  
  
"In Doriath," said Rodhalair, "we are entirely self-sufficient and have no need for outside goods."  
  
"In Valmar," Glorfindel said quietly, "it is considered very impolite for a guest to insult his host."  
  
Fingon coughed into his sleeve trying to hide a laugh. Rodhalair, uncertain of what had just been said, gave a nervous smile as he tried to guess whether or not Glorfindel's speech was something to which he should take offence. Turgon, clearly wishing neither to defend Rodhalair nor approve of anything to do with Glorfindel, pretended not to have heard. He turned his full attention to Fingolfin, who continued to obliviously sort through his presents.  
  
"I have one more gift for you, Atar. I could not pack it in the chest with everything else, so if you will excuse me one moment..." Stepping back, he opened the salon door and beckoned one of his men inside. The man carried a large basket draped with a quilt, which he set on the floor in the centre of the room. With a grand flourish, Turgon pulled the blanket away, and Fingolfin, leaning over to peer into the basket, gasped.   
  
"Stars, Turno! What are they?"  
  
"They are called 'toy silkfurs', and first came to us from the Havens in the south." Grinning smugly, he reached into the basket and pulled out one of the strangest animals Glorfindel had ever seen. It was the size of a small cat, but with stouter legs and a rounder head, and covered all over in long, straight, ivory hair. It had large, black eyes and a short snout with a black nose.  
  
"Here," said Turgon, holding out the animal for Fingolfin to take. "Hold it."  
  
Hesitating a moment, Fingolfin set it down in his lap, where it immediately curled itself into a crescent and closed its eyes. "Oh! How adorable! Is it going to sleep?"  
  
Turgon's grin widened.  
  
"But what sort of animal is it?"  
  
"A dog," Turgon said. "A miniature dog. They are bred specifically as pets, and enjoy nothing more than being carried and held and cuddled, or sleeping on your lap. Watch this."  
  
He took another one, black this time, from the basket, and turned to Fingon. "You see; there's even a black one for you." Carefully, he draped it over Fingon's shoulder. The little dog lay there, completely motionless and relaxed, while Turgon picked up a third to place on Fingolfin's shoulder in the same manner.  
  
"It's just like holding a baby!" Fingolfin laughed.  
  
Turgon nodded. "Yes, many people say that."  
  
"It makes me nervous," said Fingon.  
  
Turgon ignored him. "There are six dogs in varying colours. Four females and two males, all of different litters: enough to breed them effectively."  
  
Glorfindel leaned over far enough to see into the basket. Three miniature dogs, all mottled colours with patches of ivory, black and brown, looked back up at him. Their tails wagged expectantly.  
  
"Would you like to hold one?" Turgon asked. His voice was not friendly, but neither was it edged with the same tone of disgust Glorfindel had heard the previous night.  
  
"Oh... No thank you." Dogs, Amma had always told him, were dirty things that ate whatever they could scavenge and never cleaned themselves, as cats did. But the temptation to touch that glossy fur was too great. They looked clean enough, in their little nest. Perhaps Turgon had bathed them. "I would maybe just like to pat them," he said.  
  
Rodhalair, sneering over the insult of not having been offered a dog to hold, watched through narrow eyes as Glorfindel stroked the back of a spotted brown one. "In Doriath," he began sharply, but was interrupted by Turgon the moment the words had passed his lips.  
  
"Well, Atar, it is nearly dinner time," Turgon said loudly. "I am getting hungry. Do you think it would be nice to eat outside today? We could take the dogs to play on the grass. They've been in this basket all morning, and would surely appreciate the exercise."  
  
"Ah..." said Fingolfin. "I suppose, yes, that might be a pleasant change. We can have our food brought out to the lawns and the dogs can have a run." Carefully, he passed his two dogs back to Turgon to put into the basket, offering Rodhalair a vaguely apologetic smile as he did. Rodhalair appeared to neither notice nor care as he resolutely stared up at the windows with a foul expression on his face.  
  
Glorfindel quietly turned to Fingon. "Might I be excused?"  
  
"Of course," Fingon said with a nod. He looked to his father. "I would also ask to be excused."  
  
Fingolfin frowned, which in turn elicited a frown from Turgon. "You won't be joining us on the lawns?"  
  
"I have an appointment with my surgeon."  
  
"For what?" Turgon asked. "You look perfectly fine to me."  
  
"Nervous stomach," said Fingon, clapping his hands over his middle. "I am suffering from feelings of restlessness and disquiet, especially after meal times. He thinks it is likely because I am eating too many pale and airy foods, which combine badly with my naturally white spirit and cause a colour imbalance."  
  
For a moment, Turgon only clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I really ought to know better by now than to expect a serious answer from you," he finally said.  
  
Fingon smiled. "It's very true. One's colour balance is highly important to health and harmony. You, for example, would benefit from pale yellow. I suggest you try turnip soup for dinner, and avoid beets. Beets will compound your banality."  
  
Graciously, Turgon said nothing in reply as Fingon bowed and excused himself from the salon. Glorfindel took the opportunity to follow. But while Fingon veered left with a man who had been waiting near the door, certainly his surgeon, Glorfindel went straight to the tower stairs. He needed to find Oropher. Somewhere in the gardens, Idril was wandering, away from her father's strict and disapproving supervision. Oropher would know what to do.

~

Idril had inherited her mother's small size and her father's large sense of authority. Or, as Oropher phrased it, she was "little and bossy". He grumped and fussed over having to follow her through the gardens, always at a safe distance in accordance with Glorfindel's terror of being caught spying on her, though the caution was wasted. She seemed oblivious to everything but her own voice as she skipped and sang, prancing from stone to stone down the winding paths with the sort of carefree whimsy more appropriate to a seven-year-old than a seventy-year old. Her clothing was likewise more suited to a very young girl than a grown woman. She wore a loose blue dress with a frill around the hem and bows on the sleeves.  
  
Glorfindel thought it to be very endearing. She was so perfect and precious, with her skipping and singing and frills, that he was halfway convinced he needed to swoop down on her right then, collect her into his protective embrace, and gently carry her wherever she wished to go. He was not particularly strong, but then, she would not be particularly heavy. He would use every last flickering bit of strength in his body to carry her.  
  
"...By _three_ I count the highest word, and _four_ is mother's murmur heard, and _five_ is darkness, deep as night, but _six_ is doubled worldly light..." The rhythm of her childish nursery song, caught by the wind, rolled lazily back down the path behind her. "With _seven_ , children all around, with _eight_ a prince declares his crown. Though _nine_ is _three_ and _three_ and _three_ , the elements in harmony!"  
  
Abruptly, she stopped and twirled in place, coming to rest facing directly toward where Glorfindel and Oropher had crept too close. The two of them froze where they stood. A look of horror widened Glorfindel's eyes. But Idril merely tilted her head to the side, swished her skirt with her hands, and said, "Who are you?" She had a startlingly loud voice for someone so small.  
  
"It is I," Glorfindel called, "Lauron. From the play yesterday, and I saw you on the way to supper last night, on the stairs. Do you recall?" He took a few hesitant steps forward.  
  
"Oh right. Indis. I remember. Who's he?" she asked, pointing her chin in Oropher's direction.  
  
"Oroferno."  
  
"Is he Sindarin?"  
  
"Yes," said Oropher, at the same time as Glorfindel said, "No." He elbowed Glorfindel in the side. "Of course I am. I look it, don't I?"  
  
"You're not speaking Sindarin," Idril stated. Her words were more observational than accusatory.  
  
"Neither are you."  
  
She shrugged. "Not many Sindar know how to speak Quenya. But I think Sindarin is very interesting. It has funny sounds. You should speak it."  
  
"Right now?"  
  
"No," said Idril. "Sometime else. I'll ask you." Then she leaned back, staring at the clouds and sighing a thoughtful sigh, as if trying to decide whether or not Glorfindel and Oropher were worthy of any more attention. Her decision must have been negative. In the next moment, she turned her back on them and knelt down to study something in the grass: some flower or bug or pretty stone.  
  
But Glorfindel, who had no intention of giving up so easily now that he had been caught following and not shouted at for doing so, went nearer. "It's a lovely day for walking, isn't it?"  
  
Idril did not answer.  
  
Clearing his throat, he tried again. "What do you see there?"  
  
After a long and uncomfortable pause, Idril stood. "Nothing," she said. "My feet hurt." And she lifted her frill to show her bare feet, smudged with dirt and leaf matter from the unswept pathways.  
  
"I will carry you!" Glorfindel said immediately. "You needn't walk barefoot back to the tower."  
  
She looked at him in an appraising way. He did his best not to appear too eager, but forced a look of concern for the well-being of her feet across his face. Finally, she nodded. It was clearly less of an ordeal to be carried by a strange boy-girl than walk all the way back across the cold garden stones. "Alright." She held out her arms and let him pick her up.  
  
Ever since he had started to consider the possibility, Glorfindel had imagined that girls would be very light and easy to carry, like birds with hollow bones and fragile bodies. In his mind, he could picture himself heroically carrying Idril across the grass in effortless strides. Fingon had carried him across the stage in the play, after all. It had been so simple. But now that the task was set to him, he found Idril to be less like a graceful swan and more like an unwieldy sack of vegetables. She was nowhere near as airily weightless as he had expected. After only six steps, his arms ached fiercely.  
  
He gave a brief thought to what should have been the focus of his mind: the warmth of her body against his chest, the nearness of her breath and heartbeat, the clean scent of her skin, and the way her hair gleamed in the sunlight so that he could see, from so close, that the gold was laced with strands of pale silver and reddish copper. These things were what he wanted to consider and memorise, to sigh over later when he was alone, but reality crudely interrupted. Instead, he found himself unable to think on anything but how Idril seemed to grow heavier the farther they went, how his legs began to burn with the work of stumbling, and how her hip bone jutted painfully into his stomach. It helped none that she swung and kicked her legs idly as she chattered, disrupting the balance.  
  
"I'm not sure what my father has planned tonight. Last night we had that nice supper, but he hasn't said what's happening tonight. I think he might be doing important talking things with Haru and Taror Finno. I don't want to go to that. Talking about cities and laws and armies is dull. Are there any good books to read here? Maybe I can make Melessë read to me. I like old stories about Valinor."  
  
Glorfindel, who had to filter Idril's speech through a mind slowed by worries of tripping, had only halfway formulated what he was about to say in reply when he heard Oropher's voice. And Oropher spoke the exact words he would have said, had he been able to concentrate on his speech rather than the effort of not letting Idril fall.  
  
"If you're bored this evening, you should come to the wedding."  
  
"Wedding?"  
  
"It's a Sindarin wedding, down in the groves. I don't know if it'll be like a Noldorin wedding, I never been to one of those, but I reckon it'll be a good time. There's singing and dancing and food."  
  
"Oh!" said Idril. "That does sound very good. I am fond of weddings, you know. I think I would like to come."  
  
Oropher grinned brilliantly. "Then I will meet you in the fifth floor corridor at sunset to escort you."  
  
Whatever eloquent declaration Glorfindel thought he might say to counter this devolved into a weary grunt before it even reached his lips. He bounced Idril in his arms, trying to shift her to a more comfortable position.  
  
"Aua!" she said. "You're pulling my hair! It's stuck on your hand!"  
  
Oropher valiantly stepped in. "Let me. Just the end of your hair has tangled and caught on his thumb." With exaggerated gentleness, as if picking a speck of dust from a flower petal, he freed Idril's tangle. Then he gathered her hair in his hands, wound it loosely, and tucked the coil safely over her shoulder. "There you are! That should be safe. You must forgive my friend for hurting you; he is nervous around fair ladies and can be a bit of an oaf at times."  
  
"Oaf!" said Glorfindel. He had meant to sound indignant, but on the tail end of a gasp for breath, the word came out as a horrible, half-witted agreement. Oropher gave him a strange look. Idril tilted her head back, gazing up curiously at his face as she undoubtedly tried to guess exactly how oafish he was. He refused to meet her eyes. Whatever smile he attempted, no matter how innocent, he was certain it would appear as an exhausted and leering grimace. Instead, he stared at the goal ahead. They were halfway to the tower stair at the parapet wall. Keep walking, he told himself. Step after step. We are nearly there. Only walk. This can be done.  
  
He felt fit to collapse as they reached the base of the stairs, and it was with a pathetic groan that he stooped to set Idril back on her feet.  
  
"No!" she shouted. "No no no no no!" She squeezed her arms around his neck and kicked her legs up, refusing to touch so much as a toe to the ground. "You must carry me up the stairs and inside! These stones are cold and I don't want to walk on them! I'll only walk on carpets!"  
  
He groaned again. "But..."  
  
"No! You said you would carry me, and you must carry me inside! We are still outside! I don't want to be outside any more!"  
  
Thirty-four steps rose before Glorfindel like a great stone trial, and it was impossible to say whether or not he still possessed strength enough to overcome them. But still, for Idril's sake, he bent his knee, placed his foot on the bottom step, and shifted forward. His leg wobbled dangerously beneath him.  
  
"Ehm, here," said Oropher. "Maybe I should carry her now?" Before Glorfindel could answer, Oropher had come forward to place one arm at Idril's back and the other in the crook of her knees. She gladly wrapped her arms around his neck instead as she was carried, with no trouble at all, up the stairs and into the tower.  
  
Glorfindel stumbled back, leaned against the wall, and slid down to a sitting position. If he closed his eyes, he could try to convince himself that everything had gone rather well. At the very least, he had been in close physical proximity to his future wife for a short while. That thought was nearly as comforting as a soothing balm to his aching limbs. He was still sitting there, letting his mind wander down its imaginary paths, when Oropher returned.  
  
"She made me carry her all the way up to the third floor of the tower before she remembered her shoes were in the King's salon, and we had to go get them," Oropher said. "You still think she's delightful?"  
  
Glorfindel gave a faint smile. "Yes. She's perfect."  
  
"Well I hope she don't boss me around all night at the wedding, is all I'm saying. Else I might give her a good slap."  
  
"She won't boss you."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Because," said Glorfindel. "Just listen. I have a wonderful idea that will ensure you are neither bossed nor nagged all night."  
  
Oropher looked sceptical. "Which is...?"  
  
"I will take her to the wedding and leave you free to take somebody else. Anyone else. One of the kitchen girls."  
  
With a crude snort, Oropher turned away. "Right. I thought you'd say that. Sorry, but it won't work. I have an arrangement and I'm keeping it as it is."  
  
"Oropher, wait. You don't understand." In an instant, Glorfindel was on his feet. "I have to take Itarillë to the wedding. If I want to marry her one day, I must start somewhere."  
  
"Since when are you going to marry her?"  
  
"Since last night, when I first saw her."  
  
"Does she know?"  
  
"Not yet," said Glorfindel. "And that's exactly why I need to spend the time with her. So that she will come to realise that we belong together, as I have. This wedding will be a perfect opportunity, because it's certain to make her think about getting married herself."  
  
Oropher shook his head. "You're full mad. She's not about to... Oh, forget it, will you? She's a princess from way out west, and you're you."  
  
"It could happen."  
  
"If you told me you wanted to escort her tonight just because you fancied the idea of being able to tell everyone you took a foreign princess behind the bushes, that's one thing. I'd let you take my place, you know. But wanting to marry her is stupid."  
  
"There is nothing stupid about marriage," said Glorfindel, narrowing his eyes. "I love her. And I will not stand back and allow you to 'take her behind the bushes', as you crudely say!"  
  
"How should you stop me?" Oropher asked.  
  
With a hiss of breath, Glorfindel stepped forward and straightened his back. He had grown taller in the years since arriving in Eithel Sirion, and now held the advantage of a good six inches of height over Oropher. As he lifted his chin, he could look down his nose with an intimidating gaze. Oropher, though, seemed little affected. He stayed his ground, setting his hands on his hips and squaring his shoulders. In his years since arriving at Eithel Sirion, he had grown only slightly taller, but significantly stronger. His chest was broad and his arms well muscled. Even from six inches taller, Glorfindel could plainly see that Oropher held the advantage in any sort of combat.  
  
As Glorfindel stared, Oropher repeated his taunt, with a mocking accent to the first and last words: " _How_ should you stop _me_?"  
  
"I will pay you," said Glorfindel.  
  
"How much?"  
  
"How much do you want?"  
  
Oropher rocked on his feet and drummed his fingers against his stomach as he considered. "Six kulustar."  
  
"Six kulustar, are you mad?!"  
  
"What, your precious princess isn't worth that much? I'll have to tell her."  
  
"I don't have six kulustar!"   
  
Oropher rocked faster, swaying arrogantly as he grinned up at Glorfindel. "Five."  
  
"I don't have five, either. I have..." He shoved both hands into his pocket, pulling out a small collection of coins. "One and some tyelpilindi."  
  
"Not good enough."  
  
"I have one here, maybe one more back in my bedroom. That's all."  
  
"Four."  
  
"This one plus the silver plus whatever I have in my bedroom plus whatever I can ask from Finno and whatever I can steal from his desk while he's not looking."  
  
Oropher stopped rocking, choosing instead to make a show of running his tongue over his teeth as he frowned and creased his brow in concentration. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I accept your odd collection of kulustar. Itarillë is yours. I reckon I'll have to take Emmith to the wedding instead, now."  
  
"Isn't she the one who threatened to throw a kettle of boiling water over your-"  
  
"That's her."  
  
"Right," said Glorfindel. "Ah. What makes you think she'll agree to this?"  
  
"She will when I give her four kulustar worth of jewels and candy," Oropher answered with a grin.  
  
"You're spending my money on gifts for some vulgar kitchen girl?!"  
  
"No," said Oropher. "I'm spending _my_ money on gifts for the most beautiful kitchen girl. Want to come to market and help me choose a really big necklace?"  
  
Glorfindel shot Oropher a dangerous frown.   
  
"Suit yourself. But I want my payment."  
  
Glorfindel remained coldly silent the entire walk up the tower.

~

He should have suspected that the day would only go from bad to worse. After the fiasco with Idril in the garden, he should have had the sense to wait for another day, when the stars were on his side and he could be assured a fair chance to represent himself. Instead, Glorfindel sat in the bath, nearly choking on the overwhelming smell of oranges as he stared down at the broken bottle of oil sinking into the water. His first thought was that Fingon would strangle him for wasting so much of such an expensive thing. His second thought was that Idril would surely change her mind about being escorted to a wedding by someone who had accidentally drenched himself in perfume. This second thought was more worrisome.  
  
He rubbed his arms as he stepped from the bathtub, in a failing attempt to wipe away the oil. Shining, scented water only beaded and stuck to his skin. The towel did little more than spread the perfume evenly. His skin still felt damp. Even once he was fully dressed, his arms and legs still felt coated and separated from his clothing, which in turn did nothing to cover the smell. He had chosen his best clothes to wear for Idril, even though their heaviness was more suitable for winter, and now the fabric would be ruined by too much oil on his skin. He sent that thought to the back of his mind. At least he looked nice.  
  
Once dressed, he fixed his hair into the most important Vanyarin style he could remember, which he was certain Idril would appreciate. And he donned as much of Fingon's jewellery as he thought he could borrow without anyone becoming suspicious. Rings slid easily onto his oiled fingers, and their precious stones glinted against the gold bands at his wrists. In all, he thought the guise of a decorated lord suited him well. He looked important, with his rich costume and careful hair and many jewels. Idril would have no choice but to agree.  
  
Briefly, he listened at the door to the bedroom. There was no sound beyond; Fingon had already left to spend the evening with his brother. So, confident that he would not be seen by anyone with authority enough to take back the jewellery, he stepped out into the corridor.  
  
Oropher, who had the good timing to be leaving Fingolfin's room just then with what appeared to be a borrowed cape and sash, stopped still in his tracks and stared. And then, he began to laugh. Not a subtle or quiet snicker, but a full, ringing laugh that weakened his knees and drove him helplessly backward to sag against the wall. He gasped for breath as he covered his mouth with both hands.  
  
Glorfindel only raised his chin to support haughty, narrowed eyes. "What?"  
  
"You look like a... Oh, stars! And smell like... What is that?"  
  
"Orange oil," said Glorfindel. He tried to shape the words as sharply as he could, but still suspected that Oropher, for all his laughing, took no notice.  
  
"You the one getting married then tonight, in all that fanciness?"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with dressing well!"  
  
"No," snorted Oropher, "but you look passing stupid. Wanting to outshine your princess with all them jewels? Or just hoping the show'll trick her into thinking she's with somebody important?"  
  
Scowling, Glorfindel stepped back into the shelter of the doorway. The rings felt suddenly heavy on his fingers. The twining gold chain tugged unpleasantly at his neck, and the clasps in his hair pulled with a great weight. Even his clothing prickled on his skin. "You are a right shit, Oropher," he said. "I hope Emmith does have a hot kettle waiting."  
  
If anything, the curse only prompted Oropher to laugh louder. Disgusted, Glorfindel slammed the bathroom door, shutting himself safely inside. He took a calming breath, and crossed to the mirror. An excessive amount of finery showed in his reflection. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, he was somewhat overdressed for a simple forest wedding after all. He removed it all and started again, dressing this time in his second-best outfit and only a few of Fingon's more subtle pieces. Oropher had been right, he grudgingly admitted. He did not want to outshine Idril.  
  
However, he need not have worried. As he opened the door for a second time, he could see immediately that Idril was already waiting for him. And she appeared to be wearing an enormous cone of bright blue frills, nearly half as wide as she was tall and dotted all over with jewels and ribbons in flower shapes. The costume was topped by a crown of silver and pearls sufficiently large enough to dwarf the fist-sized cluster of gemstones at her throat. For what seemed like a horribly drawn-out moment, Glorfindel could do nothing but stare in disbelief at this pollution of opulence. He opened and closed his mouth, swallowed, and forced his lips into what he hoped at least resembled something of a smile.  
  
"You look... beautiful, my lady."  
  
Dropping her chin coyly to one side, Idril grinned back. "Thank you. Of course this is only my third best dress because we're going to an outside wedding. It's not as fancy as my best dress. That one is lilac and much prettier, with lots of pearls on it." She held out a hand gloved in blue and silver lace, which Glorfindel tentatively accepted, and broadened her grin as she stepped closer. "You smell nice," she said.  
  
Glorfindel only nodded, not trusting himself to answer. No matter how genuine she sounded, the chance that Idril meant her smell comment as truthfully as he had meant his beauty comment was too great to ignore.  
  
"Come on," he said, steering her around to face the opposite way. "Let's go down the back stairs. I know a secret way to the forest."  
  
She squeezed his arm happily. "Oh, good! I love secrets!"  
  
Glorfindel afforded her a tight smile. Now he could only hope that Idril's love of secrets would help her agree to hide from Oropher for the rest of the night.


	4. Ceremony

Whether it was out of respect for Glorfindel or because he did know how to behave in front of ladies when necessary, Oropher made no comment about Idril's gown or further snide remarks on the excess of orange oil perfume. It had been impossible to hide from him, looking as they did. The wedding celebration took place in a large grove where everyone was visible, and Glorfindel and Idril were easily the most visible people in attendance. Everyone else appeared to be simply dressed, in shades of pale pink and green. In hindsight, Glorfindel knew he ought to have questioned Oropher about Sindarin wedding dress protocol. He deeply regretted wearing magenta.

Now that Oropher had disappeared into the crowd of revellers, Glorfindel and Idril stood alone at the far end of the grove, away from the dancing and carrying on but closer to the low cooking fires where pots of food were served. Idril seemed content, for the moment, humming and swaying on the spot as she watched the dancers weave their ring at the opposite end. She swished her enormous skirt with one hand while twirling her hair around the fingers of the other. Subtly and slowly, she was inching toward the crowd.

"Watch the way they dance," said Glorfindel. "It looks dangerous, doesn't it? All that leaping and whirling. I don't think we should join in."

Idril turned to give him a brilliant smile: one that he was certain was of the type she used when she wanted to charm and persuade people. "Oh, I don't know. It looks fun. Everyone is smiling and laughing, see? I think I want to try."

"But your gown is so large and... splendid. And expensive. Somebody will step on it for certain, and rip it, or get it dirty..."

"Hm," said Idril. She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose you're right. I'll just have to be very careful and hold it up." To illustrate, she gathered up an armful of ruffles, which still managed to spill over her hands and touch the ground.

"What if we had food instead?" Glorfindel offered. "You must be hungry. We've not had any supper yet."

Idril dropped the bunches of skirt. "I had some bread and cheese while Melessë combed my hair. But that's not really supper, is it? I think I would like some actual food. You may get me some. It smells quite interesting, like spicy and woody and green all at once. I think it is real Sindarin food. We don't have that in Vinyamar. I want to try."

"Wait right here."

He crossed to the food tables, and was immediately given a large piece of flatbread by a server in a fancy green hat. Then, before he had a chance to ask about a plate, a second server turned a ladle of thick stew onto the bread. A third server topped the stew with fresh mushrooms. The three grinned at him with the silly, good-natured grin of those who have had too much wine, and he nodded his bewildered thanks in return. The look and consistency of the stew gave no indication of its ingredients. Raw mushrooms were an interesting choice of garnish. The flatbread looked like a regular variety of flatbread, but it made an insufficient plate; the heat of the stew began to radiate through and burn his hands. He hurried back to Idril.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know. Some manner of stew, with mushrooms, and bread."

"You didn't get me a plate."

"There were none. I think this is how the Sindar eat it. Directly off the bread."

Idril raised an eyebrow. "Well," she said, "if that's how it's done..." She leaned forward slightly, and opened her mouth.

"Um," said Glorfindel. He held the stew-covered bread out toward her, certain that he had misread her action. It would be ridiculous to assume she wanted him to feed her. "Don't you want-"

"No," she answered, and opened her mouth wider.

Awkwardly, Glorfindel shifted the weight of the bread from one hand to the other. A hot stream of gravy spilled over the edge and down the side of his thumb. He bit back a curse. "My lady, I really think you ought to hold it. It would be improper for you to eat out of my hands."

"Well, I'm not eating out of my own hands. They'll get dirty. Look, there's stew spilling all over your fingers. I don't want dirty hands, but boys' hands are allowed to get dirty, so you can hold it. A bit higher so I can eat without bending over."

He took a breath, tried to forget the searing liquid that slowly trickled over his hands, and held out the bread at the level of Idril's mouth. She smiled pleasantly at him between tiny bites.

"It's quite tasty, really," she said. "A bit spicy. I think it is made from radishes."

"Oh," said Glorfindel. He had focused on her mouth, and continued to stare as she ate. The concentration helped dull the throbbing, burning pain in his skin where the stew ran, if only somewhat. She had a small mouth. It was entirely at odds with the overwhelming amount of noise she produced. Her lips were a delicate, rosy pink colour in a subtle shape, with no sharply defined curves. Behind them, she had small teeth and a rather pointed tongue. That tongue could stretch an impressive distance beyond her lips, to catch wayward gravy droplets on the edges of the bread. She licked the beginnings of another rivulet, stopping it in its path. The side of her tongue met the tip of Glorfindel's finger.

It was a fraction of a moment of touch, scarcely existing at all, but the unexpected shock sent a chain of fire shooting straight to the deepest parts of Glorfindel's core, stopping to coil and writhe somewhere near his groin. He caught himself and shut his mouth before a gasp of awe could escape. Idril looked up, meeting his eyes with a gaze that could have been knowing, and smiled again.

"Aren't you going to have any?" she asked. "It's very good."

Glorfindel, not trusting his voice to speak, only shook his head.

"Too bad. I can't finish it all." She took two more bites, and stepped back. "There, I'm done."

"Alright," whispered Glorfindel. He tipped the remaining bread and stew into the bushes and looked at his hands, which were red from the heat and smeared with rivulets of gravy that had somehow managed to travel over his gold cuffs and onto his sleeves. None of it mattered. He stared at the finger that had touched Idril's tongue.

"You see," Idril said, "your hands are filthy now. You'd best wipe them off."

Nodding in silent agreement, he glanced around for anything that could be used as a napkin, eventually having to settle on a thick growth of moss at the base of a nearby tree. He wiped the resulting moss-dirt on the inside of his sleeves, where it would not show.

"I wonder when the wedding ceremony will start?" asked Idril. She had started to wander toward the dancing circle again, swishing her skirt as she went. "Where did your Sindarin friend go? Will he know?"

"Possibly; I can ask him."

"Good. I don't like waiting."

With a quick glance about the grove, Glorfindel was able to spot Oropher easily. He had left the circle on the arm of a girl who had some of the widest hips Glorfindel had ever seen, and appeared to be inventing a dance of his own: one that involved unruly bouncing and high kicks. Judging by her haughty posture, with hands cinching her waist and nose in the air, the girl had to be Emmith. She had inherited the unofficial title of Most Desirable Kitchen Wench after Ninnan's wedding two years earlier, and wore it with pride. Oropher claimed she had turned down no fewer than forty-four marriage proposals since spring. Nearly a third of those had been from him.

"Wait here," Glorfindel told Idril, and he started across the grove to where Oropher and Emmith stood.

The look that Emmith gave him as he approached started off as wary and ended up as simpering once the quantity of his jewellery and the richness of his clothing became evident. He tried not to stare at the enormous necklace that decorated her bosom.

"Oropher?"

In the middle of a kick, Oropher spun around to face him, nearly falling over in the process. "Oh! Ha. There you are. Good night so far?"

"Yes, lovely." He pressed his throbbing hands against his thighs. "But it's rather late, and we would like to know when the actual ceremony will start. If you have any idea."

"No, sorry," said Oropher. Grinning, he swung an arm around Emmith's shoulders, pulling her closer in a gesture that might have been affectionate, had Glorfindel not suspected purely jealous motives. Emmith was staring at their breeches, one after the other, in an appraising way.

"Usually lots of dancing first, though. Eating and drinking. Got to get everyone good and riled up. Then, maybe round midnight, they do their vows. After that, the dancing gets even wilder."

Glorfindel sighed. "Midnight. We have hours yet. And I can't even dance with Itarillë in that ridiculous dress of hers. What am I supposed to do until the ceremony? She gets bored easily and always wants to be doing something. Is there anything besides dancing and eating?"

"Well..." Pulling away from Emmith, he ushered Glorfindel toward the edge of the clearing and out of earshot of any other revellers. He spoke softly. "If you want my advice, and you might not because I'm very drunk right now, I think you should try to get her out of that ridiculous dress."

"Oropher!"

"No, really," he continued. "It's big and in the way. You'd be doing everyone a favour, most of all you and her. Take her out for a walk around the forest, make sure you keep going by fallen trees she can snag her skirt on, keep touching her bum by accident every time she trips... You say a few nice things about how pretty she is too, I bet you can have her undressed in no time."

"That is an absolutely despicable idea!" Glorfindel hissed. "I am not going to take advantage of her, and I am certainly not going to try to undress her in the woods! That's horrible!"

"You're right, you're right," said Oropher. He stumbled a little, burped, and leaned against Glorfindel's arm. "She's too skinny anyway."

"What?"

Oropher gave him a knowing nod. "Too skinny. No tits, no bum. Just a big dress, and that's no good. I know about these things, LL. You should forget her and find someone better, like Emmith. Only not Emmith, because she's mine. Maybe she has a friend, though..."

"I happen to think Itarillë is very beautiful and perfect exactly as she is," Glorfindel said coldly.

"Well, you'll learn. Who wants to be on top of some knobby hips and little, bony body? Trust me, once you been with one who's all soft and comfortable, you never want to go back."

Glorfindel paused just long enough to glare at him before turning around and heading back to where he had left Idril. "You are disgusting and crude, Oropher, and I sincerely hope Emmith sends you off tonight without so much as a good-bye kiss."

Oropher only laughed, and tripped over a stump as he staggered headlong back into Emmith's arms.

Swearing to himself, Glorfindel returned to the far side of the clearing. Idril was nowhere to be seen. He did a quick turn and glance about, but even the mass of blue frills had disappeared completely among the merrymaking Sindar. She had not gone to the food table for another helping, which left two possibilities in his mind: either she had grown bored and returned to the tower on her own, which was unlikely given her interest in wanting to see the ceremony, or had joined in the dancing circle. From where he stood, Glorfindel could pick out no bright blue among the leaping, whirling bodies. He went closer.

The nearer he came to the circle, the wilder it seemed to become. Men, women and children all formed a chaotic ring. They jumped and twirled, sprinted and spun, in time with the drums and pipes. Some sang in time with the music, either words or nonsense sounds, but more simply wailed or yipped their exclamations of mad delight. In the centre of the ring was a hut made of woven branches. From where Glorfindel stood, it looked like an enormous, overturned bird's nest. But as he circled around, trying to spot Idril in the writhing crowd, he saw that one side had a small doorway that was little more than a round hole in the side. Five women, all chatting and laughing and clapping their hands as they swayed to the music, guarded the door.

"Lauron!"

Glorfindel felt a touch on his arm as he heard his name. Idril had come up behind him, flushed and panting from the exertion of the dance. He looked her over, eyes widening, and gaped in shock. "My lady! You... your..."

"Yes," she said dismissively. "I took my dress off. It was far too large and hot. I hung it over a tree branch over there." She gestured with one hand toward the shadowy edges of the grove. Her hands and arms were still gloved in lace, and the explosion of jewels at her throat was still dwarfed by the crown atop her still-outlandishly-styled hair. But the cone of ruffles had disappeared, leaving only a thin shift in its place. The shift had only a small frill at the hem and ribbons around the neck.

"But you're in your underthings! What if somebody sees you?"

"That hardly matters," said Idril. "Most of the Sindar are wearing small clothes, aren't they?"

At a quick appraisal, Glorfindel had to admit that this was true. They were surrounded by thin dresses and shirtless torsos.

"Anyhow, everyone is being very nice to me. I danced through the circle to the centre and talked with those women by the hut there. They told me all about what happens at the ceremony, because I've never been to a Sindarin wedding before. They said it starts at midnight."

"That's what I learned as well," Glorfindel said.

"The bride is inside that little hut right now getting ready. She has to get dressed and have her hair styled by an older woman, one who has lots of children and grandchildren. This is to make sure she will have lots of children, you see. Meanwhile the bridegroom is out hunting with his married brothers and cousins and uncles. He has to catch a rabbit before midnight and bring it back here. The bride only comes out of the hut once he comes back. He'll give her the rabbit so her father can cook it for them, and she gives him some new clothes, green and pink. But he can't put on the new clothes yet. He's all dressed in white then, and so is she. They stand together in front of the hut and the woman who did the bride's hair gives them a blessing. Then everyone rushes forward and helps tear their white clothes off. This is to banish evil spirits and bad luck. All the pieces of torn clothing are thrown into the forest in different directions so the evil spirits get confused, and the new husband and wife go into the hut together. They stay there until morning while the guests dance and sing and celebrate. In the morning then, they come out of the hut and dress in their new green and pink clothes and eat the rabbit."

"And... the celebration goes on all night?"

"Yes!" said Idril. "Until sunrise, I think. Then there's more food for breakfast."

Glorfindel rubbed his forehead. If the wedding lasted until sunrise, that meant he had at least seven more hours of entertaining Idril amid hundreds of wild Sindar. She had already removed her dress. He tried not to think about what else could possibly happen if the rest of the night degenerated at the same speed.

"Right," he said, and he put a protective hand on her shoulder. "Listen, my lady. To be truthful, I am no great dancer. And the noise here is terrible. I can hardly hear myself think, or you speak, which is very important. We have a while yet before the ceremony, so I would suggest... ah... Would you care to go for a walk in the forest?"

~

They had only walked a short distance from the wedding grove before Idril had said she was cold. Glorfindel had put his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close, enfolding her in the excessive fabric of his robe, and they had continued on until she had claimed to be tired. Then they had found a good blanket of moss to sit on, at the base of a wide tree. Now Idril told Glorfindel that she was sleepy. She leaned against his chest, eyes closed, and absently toyed with a loose lock of his hair. On the whole, he was impressed with the minimal amount of effort it had taken to achieve the seduction.

"Itarillë?" he asked.

"Hmn?"

"Are you comfortable? Do you want me to move at all?"

She gave her head a lazy shake. "No. I'm fine." Yawning, she stretched out one arm and let her hand fall over his shoulder. "Maybe move your legs a bit so I can put my feet up. The ground is cold against my ankles."

Obligingly, he shifted his legs over, and she propped her ankles up on his shins. "Better?"

"Mm, yes," she said. "The moss is nice to sit on, isn't it?"

"Very," answered Glorfindel. The word came out too quickly, leaving him with his mouth open and breath drawn, and nothing further to say. "Uhh."

But Idril, by some lucky chance, had no such problem. "Do you come out here to sit in the forest often?"

"No. I mainly stay indoors."

"Oh, I am the same! I do like being outside of course, but I hardly go out in big forests. Back in Vinyamar my house has a large garden with trees and paths, but it is surrounded by high walls and is quite safe, like Haru's garden here. It has no dangerous animals. When I go out to the real forest there it is always with Atya or Tassi Irissë and other people. I don't think I could be in a big forest by myself. I would be too frightened." She clutched Glorfindel's hair. "I'm so glad you're here. You can protect me from wolves."

"Absolutely," whispered Glorfindel. A brief scenario flashed through his mind, in which he heroically used a long stick to ward off a circle of wolves while Idril climbed a tree to safety. What happened to him with the wolves once Idril was safe did not warrant consideration.

"Have you ever seen a wolf?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Only a dead one. Findekáno brought it back from hunting. Now it's a rug. I've heard them though, at night in winter."

Shuddering, Idril settled closer. "I am afraid of wolves. And snakes. Mostly I only like soft and pretty animals, like cats and horses."

"Birds?"

"Birds are nice, too. Especially the ones with pretty voices."

Glorfindel hesitated only a moment. "Look up. I think there is an owl in the tree above us."

"Where?"

She lifted her chin to look up, eyes scanning the branches for an owl, and Glorfindel forced himself to act before he had a chance to second-guess and change his mind. His hand slid up to the back of her neck. She froze, with a hitch of breath, staring as he leaned in to press his lips softly against hers.

"Oh..." she whispered.

"Sorry... I'm sorry." Cringing, he tried to pull away, but Idril still had him caught by the hair.

"No, don't be," she said. "I don't mind."

Her smile was a strange one. Earlier in the garden she had seemed so young, so naïve and childlike, but that face had disappeared. The Idril that looked up at him now was no silly, frilly girl. That innocence had vanished with the daylight.

"You can kiss me again if you want to," she said. Her voice had a musical lilt to it, almost teasing. "I won't tell anyone. Not Melessë or Haru and certainly not Atya."

Mutely, Glorfindel nodded. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm in his chest, and the hot blood raced up his throat and out to every far point of his body as he leaned in once again, until his face hovered so near to Idril's he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. He paused to let one last doubt flash through his mind, but it was a short one; Idril raised her head to complete the kiss. Her mouth pressed against his, and he felt her teeth close gently around his lower lip.

After that moment, after the wall had been breached, everything seemed to move twice as quickly. His arms found their way around Idril's back, and then suddenly they were on the ground, and his hands had tangled themselves through her hair. She kept her eyes closed. He kept his open, watching the closeness of her eyelashes and the pearly sheen of her perfect skin. From so close she smelled of lily perfume, but only a hint: an enticing whisper of a scent.

"Take off your shirt," Idril murmured. Her eyes remained shut, and a sly half-smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Glorfindel sat up far enough to shrug off his mantle. His shaking fingers pulled at the fastenings on his shirt as the baser, less wise side of his mind drowned any warnings that might have tried to surface. As he lifted the shirt away, Idril's hands wove their way up his bare chest. Her touch was feather-light and accented with the tickling point of fingernails.

"Tell me a poem," she said.

"A... a poem?"

"Yes."

Her hand dipped dangerously low, but he caught it at his waistband, and held its firm, hot touch flat against his stomach. "I'm sorry... I don't know any poems."

"Then tell me something pretty."

Glorfindel shivered, though he was certain it had nothing to do with the night's chill. A hundred words lingered on the tip of his tongue. None of them was pretty. It seemed an impossible task to think of anything pretty or elegant while Idril, hardly dressed, squirmed below him on the forest floor. Sighing, he lay back down close beside her, with one arm curling around the top of her head.

"Um. Well... In the sunlight, your skin was a perfect golden colour, like creamy honey, but now that I see you at night, you shine silver like a star. But your hair remains bright gold both ways. Like it were cast by Aulë himself from the most precious metals of the Earth."

"Emya always said I looked best by the light of Telperion, because the silver made my skin look paler."

"I think you are beautiful in either light," said Glorfindel. "Sun or moon. You would have been just as perfect by Laurelin. I wish I could have seen you. But the Two Trees were destroyed before I was born."

Idril turned suddenly and sharply away. "No!"

"No... what?"

"What a silly thing to say!" she said. "Don't say things like that. It ruins everything!"

"That the Trees were destroyed before-"

"I said, don't say that!" she interrupted him with a furious hiss. She still had her eyes closed, though now they were squeezed tightly, and she breathed through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," Glorfindel muttered. He had been certain she knew how old he was. Or that he was younger than she, at least. But now that he thought on it, he could not recall saying, nor think of any reason why or how she could have known. He stared at her, trying to decipher what he ought to do next. Leaving before she decided he was a complete loss seemed like a probability.

Slowly, the anger on her face relaxed. "You probably should just not say anything at all," she told him after a moment.

"Do you... still want me to kiss you?"

"Yes, of course," she said. "I didn't say not to, did I? Just don't speak at all."

Once they were married, Glorfindel promised himself, he would see what he could do about ridding her of this lofty attitude. For the time being, he only needed bear it. He cupped his hand around her cheek without another word and caught her in a slow, gentle kiss. If he could not speak then neither would she.

While their first true kiss had sped by at double speed, this one caused time to falter and crawl. He knew every movement Idril made, from the arch of her back to the shallowest breath, in perfect detail. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts and the radiant heat of her skin. All that separated their bodies was her delicate shift and his breeches. And Idril's hands had already slipped down again to flutter over the laces at his waist.

It was so hard to tell her no, with her bare thigh raised to press against his naked side. Her fingers easily found their way inside his waistband, and all he had to do was let her continue. She showed no intention of stopping.

"Itarillë..." he whispered.

"Shh. Don't speak."

"I have to. I can't... I can't do this."

"Yes you can," answered Idril. "Just kiss me."

"I can't," he repeated. He pulled away until he was propped on his elbows, looking down at her. Her eyes still remained tightly closed. She refused to so much as glance at him. "I am sorry, but... we are not married."

"I don't care."

"I do. But what if... what if... We could marry now. Right here. Just say the Holy Names..." Carefully, he watched her face, trying to read its mood. Her expression slowly hardened as she seemed to consider what he said. His heart sank. "Please. Itarillë, think about it. We could be married, right now, under this tree. All we have to do is say the vows and the Names."

"I can't marry you," she said in a stony voice. "No."

"Yes you can. Of course you can. Your father might be angry but we could run away, go to the wild lands of the south! And what say does he have, anyhow? Once done it would be done, and not even he could undo our union. No-one could."

"No." The sound was sharper this time. She opened her eyes, fixing him with a stare that was so full of anger and hate it made him gasp and roll back, well away from her. "I can't marry you. I don't want to, and I won't."

"I... I don't understand," he said.

Idril sniffed as she sat up, pulling her shift back down to cover her legs. "I won't marry you. I'm in love with somebody else."

It was as if someone had fixed a band of iron around his chest, to hear those words. Someone had fixed a band of iron around his chest and lifted him into the air. He felt dizzy, strangely weightless, and bound. Things had taken a sharp turn in the wrong direction: it was not meant to happen like this. The night had become suddenly surreal. Here he sat in the forest with the girl he wanted to marry, both of them half-naked, both of them having been twining together on a bed of moss only moments before, and she claimed to love somebody else. Such a situation could not possibly be real.

"Who?" he asked. The question came out with such angry force that it surprised him. But it was better this way. Better to shout and be angry than whine and cry like the pathetic wretch he felt.

"Somebody," said Idril.

"Oropher? Is it Oropher?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Your Sindarin friend? Why would you think that? He's very common." Sniffing again, she raised her chin. "I am a princess. I only fall in love with princes."

"So some fat-headed prince from back west, then," Glorfindel said. "And you've been in love with him all this time."

"Yes. For years and years and years."

"And so you saw nothing wrong with dragging me out here and kissing and... and worse..." His voice broke on the last word. As much as he tried to recall the anger, to convince himself that he should be furious for what she had done, it was no use. The bravery of shock had faded. He took a breath and it came in shakily, on the edge of a sob.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did you do this? And why me? You could have played your horrible games with any of the Sindarin boys around here just looking for a quick roll in the bushes, if that's all you wanted, so why me? You must have known this morning in the garden that I was... I was in..." He could not continue. Speech stuck in his constricted throat. He dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his hands against them to prevent any tears from slipping free.

The dry leaves on the forest floor rustled. He felt Idril's presence slide up beside him, still warm and soft. She touched his shoulder in an awkward sort of gesture, and she spoke in a soothing, maternal voice.

"Don't be so sad," she said. "You are quite nice, and I did have fun tonight."

"But why did you do it?" He could only whisper to keep his voice from cracking. "And why me, of everyone?"

He could feel her hand fidget against his skin. "You smell nice," she said after a pause.

"I don't," said Glorfindel. "I broke a bottle of perfume in the bath, and now I smell like Findekáno."

Idril paused again while her fingers toyed with his hair. "I know," she said at last.

A horrible feeling, like the first cold prickles before nausea sets in, preceded Glorfindel's full realisation of what Idril had just spoken. The thought stunned him. It was too absurd to be true. "I smell like Findekáno," he repeated in a whisper.

Idril, still hovering near, a little too near, made no reply.

"Right. Right. Of course you paid me no attention in the garden this morning. Why? Because you're in love with somebody else. And then you only showed any interest at all after I met you in the tower, which was after I broke the oil in the bath. I guess that was lucky for you, wasn't it? This only happened because of me making a clumsy accident with Findekáno's perfume oil. None of it would've happened if not for that. If not for that, you probably would have ignored me all night and danced in the circle, paying attention only to yourself."

He was talking too much, and too quickly. All the words fell out in a waterfall of thoughtless rambling. But if he kept speaking, he could avoid thinking or feeling.

"I should go," he said, standing with a sudden jerkiness. He allowed himself to focus on one thought while shutting out the rest, and that one thought was that he wanted to be as far from Idril as possible. How funny it seemed, that only moments ago she had been the most beautiful thing in the world. He could hardly even bear to look at her now. "Oropher's waiting for me. He'll wonder where I am. I told him I'd be back soon, and we've been out here a long time... I should go. Your dress is this way. Maybe you should follow me back to it. Then somebody else can take you back to the tower. Why Findekáno? Why him? What about him is so great? He's your uncle!"

Idril made sounds of deliberation, and flipped her hands against her skirt, but he refused to watch her. "He's very interesting," she finally said. "And writes poems and songs for me. Nobody else does. You'd think that being a princess, I'd have lots of people writing songs for me, but Taror Finno is the only one."

"But he's your uncle!"

"Yes," said Idril, "but it's not like I know him very well or anything. I hardly see him at all, so it's like he's almost a stranger. And he's not the least bit like Atya, they don't even look similar, so he might as well not be my uncle. I don't see what the problem is. There aren't many other princes about, and those few others are all my uncles and cousins anyhow, so who else am I supposed to marry?"

And that was the end. If there were anything more that Idril could say to make her seem even more empty-headed and vain, Glorfindel refused to hear it. He could almost laugh at himself now for ever thinking she was charming. He would have laughed, if the situation were at all amusing. Instead it sickened him. He pulled on his shirt, shoving his arms roughly into the sleeves, and turned down the path that led back to the wedding grove. As if nothing had gone the least bit wrong, Idril followed, accompanied by her stream of inane chatter.

Glorfindel only spoke to her again once they reached the place where she had discarded her gown. The wind had blown it halfway off the tree branch, and part of the gauzy skirt had caught on a cluster of wild rose bushes. Dead leaves stuck in the ruffles.

"I'm going back to the tower," he told her once she had freed the dress and pulled it over her head. His voice rang satisfyingly cold in his ears, with no hint of the earlier threatened tears. "I'm sure you wish to stay at the wedding and dance. Someone else can escort you back later."

"I don't think that's right," said Idril. "You brought me here, and you should stay with me until I want to leave. You can't leave me surrounded by all these strange men. That's not good manners."

"Good manners..." Glorfindel muttered, but bit down on his tongue to keep from speaking aloud. What did Idril know of good manners? "Sorry. No. I must go. I will say my farewells to Oropher, and go back to the tower. It's late, and Findekáno will be wondering where I've gone."

He could hear Idril's breath hitch even across the distance between them, and her eyes grew wide. "Why would Taror Finno care where you are? Aren't you just a servant?"

"His servant," Glorfindel corrected. He waited for her reaction, and it did not disappoint: by the way her mouth fell open, only a slight bit, but still open, she had not known. And now he could all but see the regret spinning through her head, as she counted out all the ways she might have used him to get closer to Fingon. If only she had known.

"How do you think I used his bath, and borrowed his jewellery?" He asked.

"I... Well, I thought you were being cheeky," said Idril. "Sneaking in there while he was out, stealing his things."

Glorfindel snorted. "I have no need to steal from him, nor sneak into his bathroom like a rat. I have certain privileges. As his personal retainer." He savoured the feel of those words and, even more, the brief note of panic that played across Idril's features.

She was able to cover it almost as soon as it surfaced. Her wide-eyed gape turned smoothly into a smile of perfect sweetness. "Ohhh," she breathed; "I am sorry. I didn't realise you were so important. I thought you were just one of the regular servants like Atya has. But I suppose being a prince's personal retainer means you're quite high up, aren't you?"

"Of course," Glorfindel answered. He gave her a smile in return: one that was every bit as false as the awe in her voice.

"So you must spend lots of time with Taror Finno."

"Yes."

"And you probably know him quite well. Almost like a friend, even."

Glorfindel refused to let his smile waver. "Yes. I would say that is true."

"Oh, you are far more important and interesting than I first thought!" Idril said, beaming. "I am sure you of all people in the tower, then, would be able to tell me if Finno ever talks about marriage. And is he close with any of the ladies here?"

"A few. And one in particular: Lailaniel, his second-cousin on his mother's side."

"Lailaniel," Idril echoed. Her sweet voice carried the faintest hint of sour undertones. "What a pretty name. I'm sure she is lovely."

"Absolutely. She is very beautiful. And very wealthy, and eloquent and well-dressed. Kind and gracious, too. She and Findekáno are excellent friends."

It was a night of firsts, for certain. He had never imagined there could be circumstances under which he would praise Lailaniel's beak-like nose and thin mouth as beauty, nor her sharp, bitter tongue as eloquent or gracious. But stranger things had happened. And the sight of Idril's sweet look falling, second by second, justified everything.

"Then I shall have to meet this Lailaniel," said Idril. "I simply must see if she is as wonderful in person as she sounds by your description."

"She does defy expectations. Although..." Dropping his voice to a whisper, Glorfindel stepped close to Idril once again, until his mouth hovered next to her ear. "She is not the one you need worry about."

"No?" Idril whispered back.

"No. And I tell you this in strictest confidence, Itarillë. Because you ought to know." He paused, letting her draw an anxious breath. "Findekáno is in love with someone else."

She gasped, whipping her head around to look him in the eye. "What? Who?"

"Do you remember the play?"

"Yes! Of course. What about it?"

"And you remember the wedding, and the kiss between Finwë and Indis?"

"Yes..."

He leaned closer, until his forehead almost met hers, and he touched the tips of two fingers softly against her cheek. "It wasn't all acting."  



	5. Theft

Idril did not accompany him back to the tower. She refused to so much as follow him to the grove, glaring and huffing as she was and rolling her eyes in a great show of scepticism, so he went alone. He gave a moment's pause near the dancers, glancing around for Oropher, but continued on with no luck. Oropher and Emmith had disappeared somewhere into the trees. So had a good number of the rest of the guests, to judge by the subdued sparseness of the dance ring. The paths back to the walls of the city were likewise empty, and even the halls and corridors of Barad Eithel stood hollow and deserted. Glorfindel took the stairs up to the fifth floor two in a stride, passing no-one along the way, and pushed open the door to Fingon's room.  
  
The door swung open, hit something solid just inside, and bounced back to crack him on the head. He swore as a hot, white light flashed behind his eyes and pulsed in time with the throbbing pain that shot from his forehead and down his neck. Of course the evening would end this way. He pushed the door again, though carefully, giving it a steady shove. What sounded like the legs of a heavy chair scraped against the stone floor, until he had pushed the door open enough to slip through.  
  
Inside the room, Fingon's bed curtains were drawn. The fire burned low, and a single lit candle stood on the bedside table. Fingon had to be already in bed, though Glorfindel was certain he had heard noise and a voice as he pushed open the door.  
  
"Finno?" he called.  
  
Fingon's voice answered from behind the curtains after a short pause. "What?" It was followed by sound of rustling and a stifled laugh.  
  
"Are you in bed?"  
  
"Of course I'm in bed." The curtains parted in the centre, but only enough to allow Fingon's head to slip through.  
  
Glorfindel bit down on his tongue at the redundancy of his question. "Sorry. I meant, are you going to sleep right away?"  
  
"No," said Fingon.  
  
Again, the muffled laughter sounded. Glorfindel's eyes flickered to the foot of the bed, hidden by the curtains. "Is somebody-"  
  
Fingon sighed. "Marderya."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"My surgeon."  
  
Fingon pushed back one of the curtains to reveal the outline of a man, half hidden in the shadows, kneeling at the end of the mattress. He appeared to be fully clothed, though Fingon, Glorfindel could now see, wore only loose breeches.  
  
"Why is he... Why is your surgeon in your bed?"  
  
" _On_ my bed," Fingon said tersely. "And I don't think you two have ever been formally introduced. Lauron, this is Marderya, my surgeon. Marderya, this is Laurefindil, my retainer."  
  
Marderya leaned forward far enough that Glorfindel could see his face in the flickering candlelight. He had seen him before, about the tower in the corridors and courtyards, but had never known who he was or what he did.  
  
"Anyhow," Fingon continued, "it is a perfectly innocent situation. I injured my shoulder sparring this afternoon. Strained muscle, and it's rather sore. Marderya is here to give me a massage."  
  
"Oh," said Glorfindel. He looked at Marderya, and at Fingon, eyes flitting back and forth between them. Both of them seemed reluctant to return his gaze. "Well, if you're engaged, I suppose I'll just..."  
  
Awkwardly, he turned and shuffled back to the door, stepping around the chair that blocked the way.  
  
"Oh, and Lauron, before you go?"  
  
Glorfindel paused to glance over his shoulder at Fingon.  
  
"Take the pouch of coins from my desk. You'll need to go to the market in the morning and buy a replacement for the bath oil you broke."  
  
He cringed at that reminder; he had almost forgotten his stupidity and clumsiness, and everything it invited. "Right. Sorry, Finno. I'll find a new one for you."  
  
"Orange oil. Only orange. Undiluted."  
  
"I know." As quickly as he could manage, he snatched the coins from Fingon's desk and left the room before anything further could be said. He pulled the door shut behind him and was certain he heard, as he retreated down the corridor, the sound of a heavy chair scraping against the stone floor. It echoed and followed him down, step by step, until he reached the third floor.  
  
Before he reached the bottom stair he could see that something was wrong. His bedroom door, which he was always so careful to close, hung open. There was no reason for anyone to have gone in that evening, and he had not been there since fetching Oropher's money. He approached with a frown. The closer he came, he could see that not only was the door open, but the blankets on his bed had been turned back. They were carelessly thrown aside and his pillow pushed against the wall, as if someone had been in search of something.  
  
It only made him the slightest bit ashamed that his first accusatory thought turned toward Oropher.  
  
Inside the room, he could hear quiet movements: the shuffling of feet and the rustle of clothing. Whoever had opened the door was still there, searching through his things. He held his fist up and paused, but only for a breath before slipping silently through the door and coming face to face with his intruder.  
  
Or rather, face to back. He reached to grab the shoulder of the figure before him, only halfway discernable in the darkness, and his hand closed around hair. The owner of the hair shrieked, and the next thing Glorfindel knew a hand came whistling out of the shadows to make solid contact with his face. He staggered backward, more out of shock than the force of the blow, and his leg bumped against the bed frame. It was too close to allow him any room to regain his balance. Slowly, fully aware of his awkwardness and unable to do anything about it, he toppled over onto the bed. The intruder gave another screech, this one sounding more pained than surprised, and something heavy enough to knock his breath out fell on top of him. He realised belatedly that he still held a handful of hair.  
  
The hair was attached to a head, and the head turned to snarl at him, "You touch me again, you filthy cur, and I'll rip your balls off and keep 'em for a trophy!"  
  
He froze at the threat, spoken in a sharp, Sindarin voice: a feminine voice. Most of the girls of Eithel Sirion were brash enough to speak so vulgarly. But few were large enough to match the weight that now lay across his body. "...Emmith?"  
  
"What?!"  
  
He tried to sit up and wiggle out from under her, but the movement only earned him an elbow in the ribs.  
  
"Don't rub up against me, pervert!"  
  
"Ow!" he gasped. "No! You're lying on top of me! I can't move unless you stand up!"  
  
With a grunt, Emmith pulled herself to her feet, and Glorfindel was able to sit. He coughed and rubbed his chest.  
  
"Thought you'd attack me unawares, hm?" she asked. "Well look here! I'm too quick for you, and now I'm going to report you to the tower guards! You shouldn't even be up here!"  
  
"Shouldn't even-" Glorfindel began, but a coughing fit overwhelmed him when he tried to breathe too deeply. His eyes began to water. "What do you mean? This is my bedroom!"  
  
Emmith inhaled sharply. "Yours?" She bent over until her face was inches from his, and he could see the shadow-blurred lines of her features. Putting a hand to his cheek, which still burned with the memory of her slap, she pushed him into the weak beam of light coming in through the doorway for a better look. "Oh," she said. "It is you. Oropher's Midhren friend."  
  
"Who else would I be? And who else would be in my bedroom?"  
  
Stiffly, she stood back upright and crossed her arms over her chest. "I thought you were one of the cooks who followed me up here for a quick grab and feel in the dark. You smell very strong of fruit, you know."  
  
Glorfindel gritted his teeth. "I know."  
  
"But I'm glad you're not one of the cooks," she continued in a voice that had made a sudden shift from harsh to pleasantly melodic. "They're all dirty and greasy and stupid."  
  
"Oh... thank you," Glorfindel said uncertainly.  
  
"You're not like them, are you? I bet you didn't try to attack me at all. I was only startled. What a funny misunderstanding!" Moving into the light of the door, she gave an airy laugh. "Anyhow I have to go. My brother is very protective and gets worried when I'm not back when he expects."  
  
"But why were you in here in the first place?"  
  
Her smile grew strained. "Oh. Uh. I was... I was looking for Oropher. I thought this was his room!" She laughed again, and flapped her hands about her head in a frivolous gesture. "How silly of me!"  
  
"Right..." said Glorfindel. He stared at her, trying to get any reading of her true intent, but her face showed only as a black silhouette against the light of the corridor. There was no point in pressing the question. If she had come to steal money from him, she was out of luck; every coin in his purse had already been handed over to Oropher.  
  
"Good night!" she called, and flapped her hands in something akin to a wave of farewell.  
  
"Good night, Emmith."  
  
She made it only three steps beyond the door before spinning around and returning. "You know... I did tell my brother I might be very late. Maybe not back until morning."   
  
"And?"  
  
"Aaaaannnddddd..." With a sound like a humming sigh, she ran her hands slowly down the outline of her body.  
  
Glorfindel groaned. After the fiasco with Idril, if there were anything he wanted less than to spend the night with Emmith, he could not think of it. "Look, Emmith," he said. "I'm sorry, but I think you should just go back to your family. It's late, I'm tired, my head hurts..." He tried breathe in, and coughed. "My chest hurts."  
  
"Is that the truth or are you just being loyal to your Princess?"  
  
Glorfindel groaned again, and bent over until his crossed arms rested on his knees and his forehead rested on his arms. He could do with never speaking of Idril again. Least of all with Emmith. "She's not my Princess," he muttered.  
  
"Ooooh," said Emmith, in a voice he was certain was commonly used to relay bits of information formerly known as secrets. "Cut you down, did she?"  
  
"No, in fact it was just the opposite, and I was the one who-" He caught himself too late, and bit down hard on the sides of his tongue. Another former secret was on its way to join the greedy kitchen gossip of Eithel Sirion. He turned his head to look at Emmith, and sure enough, she had leaned forward to better absorb what he had to say.  
  
"You can tell me," she whispered anxiously.  
  
"No, I can't," he said. "And I can't do anything else, either. You should go. I need to sleep. Alone."  
  
Her pouting lower lip was prominent enough even to see in silhouette. "Are you sure?" she asked. "I know a full good way to mend heartbreak. I been told I'm very good at-"  
  
" _No_."  
  
She gave a little sniff. "Fine. But I hope you know what you're missing."  
  
Gathering her skirt in her hands, she swished out of the door once again. Glorfindel lost no time in shutting it after her. His head hurt more than he had first realised, and the only thing he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. Preferably for a very long time. He shrugged off his clothes, splashed his hands and face with day-old water from the basin, and collapsed onto his disarray of blankets.  
  
"Oh please..." he whispered to his pillow. "Oh please let me just fall asleep quickly and forget all about this horrible night..." But sleep was unwilling to come, chased off by visions of Idril and Glorfindel's memories of everything he had done wrong. _If only_... he thought. Though he could not think of a single thing he should have done differently, apart from never having set eyes on Idril in the first place.  
  
At some point he must have fallen asleep, though the waking thoughts segued seamlessly into dreams. The sun had started to rise by the time he looked up from his pillow, though he could have sworn less than an hour had passed. His bedroom was full of the grey light of early morning. Yawning and stretching, he rolled over to face toward the door. The first thing he saw was Oropher's round-eyed gaze staring back at him.  
  
"Valar!" he shouted, and nearly leapt out of bed for fright.  
  
"Go back to sleep," said Oropher, his voice affecting a low and soothing tone that missed its mark entirely. "Shhhh..."  
  
"What are you doing in here?!"  
  
"Shhh," Oropher repeated.  
  
Glorfindel quickly pulled a blanket across his naked body. "I don't believe this! My bedroom is not a public space! First Emmith, now you!"  
  
At the mention of Emmith's name, Oropher tensed. "Emmith? She was here?"  
  
"I caught her sneaking last night. Much like you're doing, come to think of it!" He glared down at Oropher's hands, which, he now saw, were wedged between his mattress and the bed frame.  
  
"Get off the bed," said Oropher.  
  
"What? No! I'm trying to sleep, and you're disturbing me! Get out of my room!"  
  
Oropher shot him a fierce look. "Just get off a moment. I need to check something."  
  
Glorfindel growled a half-secret obscenity, but still he complied. It was always easier and faster to go along with Oropher's ludicrous ideas than oppose them. He slid down to the foot of the bed and watched through narrowed eyes as Oropher felt under the mattress and then lifted its edge to peer at the slatted frame beneath.  
  
"That dirty bitch!" Oropher shouted. He let the mattress fall, and then punched it.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Emmith! I don't believe it! She stole the necklace back!"  
  
"She stole the..." Glorfindel looked from the mattress to Oropher's enraged face. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"The necklace!" said Oropher. "The necklace I bought! I took it back and hid it, and she stole it! Bitch!"  
  
Glorfindel was lost. "But... Why would it be under my mattress?"  
  
"Because I hid it there!" Grunting and sighing, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, Oropher explained. "I gave her that necklace last night. She took it off with most of the rest of her clothes out by the wedding grove, but then when she was down to only her shift she said that's as far as she'd go! She only let me kiss her a bit. I wasn't about to waste that necklace on her if that's all I get, so I grabbed it back and ran. But I couldn't hide it in my room. She'd look there first. So I hid it in here. And she stole it!"  
  
Glorfindel rubbed his eyes. Despite having just awoken, he felt as tired as ever. Oropher's antics usually had that effect. "Are you sure it's not there?" he asked. "She had been looking through the bedding when I got in. Perhaps she disturbed the slats and it fell to the floor."  
  
"No, it's not!" Oropher insisted. "I left it right here, toward the top back corner, and now it's gone! There's nothing there at all!"  
  
It took a moment for Glorfindel's mind to fully process what Oropher had said, but once it did, a sickening thought hit him like a blow to the stomach. "Wait," he said. "There's _nothing_ there?"  
  
He jumped off the end of the bed, heedless of his nakedness, and lifted the mattress as high as he could off its frame. Empty slats of rough wood looked back at him. He dropped the mattress and fell to his hands and knees, looking desperately for anything that could have fallen between the slats and landed on the floor beneath. But nothing was there. Of the few things he had considered valuable enough to hide, nothing remained. His copper ceremonial knife had disappeared, and the poor jewellery he had brought with him from Valmar. Amma's ring, on its fine gold chain, was gone.  
  
A hot fury started to rise in his chest. He sat up, looking Oropher in the eye to see his own hatred reflected perfectly. "That dirty bitch!" he hissed. 

~

Oropher did not know exactly where Emmith lived, but he did know where she worked in the vast kitchens of the tower. At this early hour of the morning, he told Glorfindel, she would be already at work making bread for the King's breakfast. They were on their way to find her as soon as Glorfindel had pulled on some clothes.  
  
Glorfindel had been near the kitchens, but never inside. Even after eleven years among the Noldor, the stench of their food still made his stomach churn: the searing flesh and hot blood of animals, bare of the spices that softened the smell of Vanyarin cooking. He supposed he would never be used to it, and he avoided the corridors that ran near the kitchens mostly so he would not have to breathe that air. Now he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve as Oropher led the way.  
  
The blast of heat that hit them as the double doors opened made Glorfindel's eyes water. The rest of his senses were equally assaulted: the huge and numerous fires that created the heat filled the kitchens with a strange, red-orange light and hints of smoke from ineffective chimneys. Noise echoed from every corner of the room, which seemed to be little more than an Elven-made cave. Shouted orders mingled with the clash of dishes and general chaos of countless workers on the move. Even through the fabric of his sleeve, the air Glorfindel breathed had a smoky, greasy taste.  
  
"Over here!" Oropher shouted above the din. "She'll be in that far corner!"  
  
Oropher wound his way between tables and food carts, and Glorfindel followed. To their right, older boys chopped vegetables into great iron cauldrons of soup or stew. To the left, a shirtless man hacked away at the carcass of a goat with his cleaver, as rivulets of sweat slid down his naked back. Whether it was because of the sights, the smells, or the heat, a creeping nausea had started its way up Glorfindel's throat by the time they reached the women in the back corner.  
  
He watched as Oropher's eyes scanned over the women rolling dough at tables, and those cooking flat-cakes in pans over low fires. "There," said Oropher, and he pointed to a group sorting fruit into barrels along the side wall. Her head was low in a barrel, but Emmith's round bottom and cleverly fitted skirt were unmistakeable. "Come on."  
  
In the commotion of the kitchen, Oropher made no attempt to sneak up and catch her by surprise. It would be impossible for her to hear them, and she would not have seen them either, if not for an unlucky chance. Emmith stood up and flipped her hair back, shaking it away from her face while laughing to her companions about something Glorfindel was sure had to do with him and Oropher. As Oropher approached, she spied them from the corner of her eye and did a double take. There was nowhere to run and no chance of hiding, but Glorfindel saw her hands fly to her chest, and she turned her back to them. The movements she made looked distinctly like she was stuffing something down the front of her dress.  
  
"Emmith!" Oropher shouted. "You horse-fucking-"  
  
"Wait!" said Glorfindel, and he grabbed Oropher by the shoulder. Looking furious, Oropher spun around to face him. "Look," Glorfindel continued in a quieter tone, "it's pointless to confront her when she's with her friends. She's too arrogant, and their presence will only help her. We need to talk to her alone. Make her feel nervous and overpowered."  
  
Oropher gave a slow nod. "Right. That makes sense." He continued his way toward Emmith, ignoring her jeers, and grabbed her roughly by the arm. She screeched in protest and twisted her body around to either escape or strike him. But he was too quick, and too effective: in seconds, he had both arms pinned behind her back and was leading her off to a stack of barrels and crates. Those nearby threw a glance at the spectacle of Emmith dragging her feet and hollering threats and obscenities, but none so much as stopped working or lifted a hand to help her. Such rough-housing must have been commonplace among the workers, Glorfindel thought, as Oropher pushed her roughly against the barrels.  
  
"Where's the ring, Emmith?"  
  
Emmith stopped shouting abuses long enough to look from Oropher to Glorfindel with a mask of well-practiced surprise on her face. "Ring?"  
  
"Don't be stupid, and don't be coy!" said Oropher. "I know you took that necklace. I can see the chain right now, stuffed down your dress!"  
  
Quietly, trying to disguise the gesture behind a flip of her hair, Emmith brushed her fingers along the exposed chain.  
  
"Now hidden in the same place as the necklace was a bunch of Glorfindel's things: a little knife, some hair clips and jewellery, and a large ring. I don't care about the necklace anymore, Emmith. Now you've shown all your friends I can't take it back, because everyone knows it's yours. But you have no right to take anything else!"  
  
"That's right," added Glorfindel. He knew it sounded stupid, but he had to do something to support Oropher's attack on his behalf.  
  
"How do you know I took anything?" Emmith sniffed. "I did take the necklace, alright? But that's it. Somebody else must've took the rest."  
  
Oropher's arm whipped out to strike the barrel inches from Emmith's head. She screamed and leapt to the side, but his other arm was already in the way, preventing her escape. "Nobody else took it!" he shouted. "When I hid that necklace there, I saw the ring and everything else exactly where it should be! You took the necklace, and I'd be an idiot to believe you didn't steal the rest while you were at it!"  
  
"I didn't-" she began, but Oropher struck the barrel on the other side of her head, with enough force to dent the wood, and she screamed again. "Don't threaten me!"  
  
"Don't lie to me!"  
  
Tensed for a confrontation, Glorfindel stepped forward. He had never before, in seven years, seen Oropher in this kind of rage. Oropher had been grumpy and sulky, quietly seething or patiently vicious like a snake, but never explosively angry. It was a frightening thing to watch, as if seven years of suppressed fire were about to burst free.  
  
Glorfindel placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Oropher..."  
  
Snarling, Oropher spun around. "What?!"  
  
"Look... Maybe I should do this? It's my ring. Let me do the talking."  
  
"You can try," said Oropher. "But good luck. Bitch's thick as pig shite."  
  
Emmith's chin jutted out at the insult and she spat at him, but only after he had safely turned his back and was a few good paces gone.  
  
Oropher, still coiled full of unchecked fury, kicked over a worktable as he stalked away. The man who had been there making sausages gave a shout. A shout came back from Oropher, and a gesture of threat. Glorfindel watched, shaking his head, as gestures turned to blows and blows became a full brawl on the floor. The brawlers crashed into a second table, and suddenly, two more men had joined the fight. The sounds of their fists and hollers of rage and pain slipped easily in to the greater noise of the kitchens.  
  
Pressing his fingers against his forehead, Glorfindel turned back to Emmith. "Sorry about that," he said. "Oropher seems a little... uptight today."  
  
Emmith scowled and said nothing. She stared him down with slitted eyes.  
  
"Emmith, I know you took my things," he began, "but I won't care and I won't call the guards on you if you just give me back my ring and my knife. The rest, you can keep. I only want the ring and the knife."  
  
"Go ahead," said Emmith. "Call the guards. I'll say you gave me everything as a present because you're so in love with me." Crossing her arms, she grinned smugly.  
  
"Is that your usual scheme?"  
  
She gave a sharp laugh. "Well how else am I supposed to get anything nice? All I do is pull my dress down like this..." She tugged at the front of her dress until the neckline was low enough to show the generous curve of her breasts. "Then I lean forward and talk in a pretty voice, and who do those thick guards believe? Me! You get hauled away and roughed up for giving me trouble."  
  
"And this works for you?" Glorfindel asked.  
  
"At least four times so far."  
  
Glorfindel nodded. "It is a good plan. But I don't think it will do quite as nicely this time. You see, Emmith, I'm not some crude cook or rock-headed tower boy. I am the personal retainer to our Prince. And with that position comes a few privileges." Holding his hands up, he shook his arms so that his sleeves fell down to gather at his elbows. The gold bracelets at his wrists shone red in the fiery light. He watched as Emmith's gaze slid from the bracelets to the fine linen of his shirt, trimmed with imported silk. A hint of recognition that perhaps, for once, she had stepped into something beyond her control flickered in her eyes as she toyed with the edge of her rough apron.  
  
"The problem is," Glorfindel continued, "it's not your word against some poor, insignificant fellow any more. It's no longer a choice between pretty Emmith and a fool who finds himself in an unfortunate situation when the guards are looking to make themselves busy. This time, it's your word against somebody who has the Prince's favour. Can you see where this might lead?"  
  
"I... I think you're bluffing," she said. Sneering, she stuck out her chin, but fear and doubt still wavered behind her show of confidence.  
  
"Emmith, I am giving you a warning and a choice. The warning is that you're very close to being on the wrong side of an arrest warrant. The choice is that you either give me back my ring and my knife now, with no trouble, or I call upon my Prince to draw up the order for your arrest himself. In which case I will take back my things from your stash of stolen goods with no-one to oppose me, because you will be safely chained in a cell as a thief."  
  
Emmith's eyes darted to his face and then away. She took a breath and paused, uncertain. "Well I don't have it here," she finally said.  
  
"Where, then?"  
  
"Somewhere else. Safe. And I can't go now, I'm in the middle of working. But if you come back after the breakfast is served I can get it for you."  
  
"And you'll return my things with no fuss and no trickery?" Glorfindel asked.  
  
As if it pained her to do so, she slowly nodded. "I'll return them."  
  
"Good. I'll be back here to meet you as soon as I see the servers heading out with their trays. I trust you will be exactly in this spot, so that we can avoid any unpleasant misunderstandings. Is that clear?" Smiling at her, baring a hint of teeth, he noted with satisfaction that a small shudder ran down her back as she murmured her agreement. He stepped forward to put a hand on her shoulder. "Please don't disappoint me."  
  
She shrugged him off with a little sound of annoyance. "I'm not a halfwit, you know. I'll be waiting right here for you. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do. Unlike some people around here." She snorted in the direction Oropher had left, though he was no longer anywhere to be seen.  
  
There was nothing left for Glorfindel to do but step aside and let her pass. She returned to her place at the fruit barrels and kept her back solidly oriented against him, refusing to turn so much as a cheek in his direction. Shaking his head, Glorfindel stalked away. He had better things to do than stand around in the hot stench of the kitchens and watch Emmith sort fruit. Anything would be better than breathing in acrid smoke and the tang of blood while staring at her fat, mocking bottom.  
  
He followed Oropher's trail of destruction that had blazed its way through the great rooms, passing an overturned table here, a splatter of liquid on the floor there, spilt food, broken stools, and numerous men nursing minor injuries. The mess and chaos wound back and forth across the various work areas before finally coming to an end in a corner near the main doors. There sat Oropher on the floor, arm in arm with the sausage-maker whose table he had first disturbed. The two had managed to pick up a suspicious-looking bottle somewhere over the course of their travels, which they now passed back and forth.  
  
"LL!" Oropher called as Glorfindel approached. "I would like you to meet my very good new friend. This fellow."  
  
Oropher's very good new friend nodded to Glorfindel, and raised the bottle. Oropher himself, Glorfindel saw, now sported an impressive goose egg on the side of his forehead, along with a bloodied nose and lip. His clothing had been torn in several places, revealing cuts, scrapes and bruises beneath.  
  
"Are you drunk?" Glorfindel asked.  
  
"Not hardly," said Oropher. "We're only just starting."  
  
"Well, stop starting. We need to go. Emmith has agreed to give my things back as soon as breakfast is over. But I don't want to wait around until then. I think we should go, and then you can tell me when Emmith should be finished with breakfast, and when we should return."  
  
The jovial mood dropped at once. "You're right," Oropher said as he stood. "Dealing with her is our priority right now. This is no time for carrying on." He bowed to the sausage-maker. "Good to meet you, friend. Sorry to leave so soon, but I have to get revenge on a scheming cat's cunny of a girl. You understand."  
  
Whether the man understood or not, he gave no sign, but took another swig from the bottle as he rubbed at a streak of blood on his chin. Oropher gave him a last little salute before joining Glorfindel.  
  
"It's early still," Oropher said. "Won't be finished breakfast for another few hours, at least." He was walking with a limp, Glorfindel noticed, heavily favouring his right leg.  
  
"What did you do to yourself, Oropher?"  
  
"Me? Nothing. Just having some fun, you know... work off some anger. Just a little fight."  
  
"You're limping."  
  
Immediately, Oropher tried to correct his movements. "No, I'm not." He evened his pace, but it only made his steps seem jerky and stiff. "Anyhow, like I said, we have a few hours at least before Emmith's done. What'd you reckon we should do? I think we need a plan. What if you hold her arms, and I-"  
  
"I have a plan," said Glorfindel.  
  
"And?"  
  
"And, my plan is to spend the hours we have going back to bed. Then I shall get dressed, in some of my better clothes."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"And then," Glorfindel continued as they reached the door and stepped out into the corridor, "we will go and speak with Emmith. And she will return my things."  
  
Oropher looked sceptical. "I think you're underestimating Emmith's stubbornness. We need a better plan than talking to her. That'll go nowhere. Like I said, you hold her arms-"  
  
"Oropher, who's the person in Eithel Sirion who frightens you most?"  
  
"Fingon," Oropher answered immediately. He needed no time to think.  
  
"Exactly. Everyone is always most afraid of Fingon. Why?"  
  
"Because... Because he knows everything. He knows what you're going to do, can stop it before it happens, and has every way out covered. Then he tells you what he'll do if you don't behave. In detail."  
  
"Has Fingon ever held your arms behind your back while getting someone else to rough you up?"  
  
"No," Oropher admitted, "but he did once threaten to have somebody else hold my arms while he... did something unpleasant with my guts."  
  
"And then you listened to him."  
  
"Bleeding right I listened to him. Only the thickest kind of idiot wouldn't."  
  
"And that's exactly it," said Glorfindel. "You see, in almost all cases, the threat of harm or punishment is just as effective, if not more so, than actual violence. It makes people afraid when they contemplate the outcome, and when people are afraid, they are more likely to do as you say. In seven years, I have never once seen Fingon carry through with one of his outlandish threats, and I've been on the receiving end of many of them. He subdues those who oppose him by attacking their minds, making them fear him, rather than harming their bodies."  
  
Oropher stopped where he stood to give Glorfindel a quick and incredulous glance. "Erm, remember that time he locked you in the dungeons for six days? In the dead of winter? And you nearly died? From freezing and blood loss? From being chained up to the wall by your arms? D'you recall?"  
  
Glorfindel's eyes darted down to the ever-present wide, gold bracelets on his wrists. He twisted one from side to side, feeling the soft leather lining rub against the ridges of scar-hardened flesh beneath. "That was different. I was arrested by Celeiros, not Fingon. Fingon was the one who got me out of there, and he was beside himself for having allowed it to happen in the first place. He never intended that."  
  
Turning away, Oropher gave a derisive snort, but said nothing.  
  
"Anyhow," Glorfindel said loudly, "my point is still that we'd do better to intimidate Emmith into returning my things as planned rather than trying to take them by force if she reneges on the promise. You saw how she only grew more stubborn the closer you came to hitting her. That's the sort of tactic she's accustomed to, and she expects it. She doesn't expect more subtle negotiations."  
  
"So what are you going to do? Pretend to be Fingon and calmly threaten to sew her mouth shut with red-hot wire like he said he would do to me the other day?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded. "That is exactly what I'm going to do."  
  
"I don't see how that's very subtle."  
  
"The subtlety isn't in what you say, Oropher, but how you say it. Fingon, for example..." He stopped to stand next to Oropher, so close their shoulders touched. "Fingon stands too close. And he leans in, like this, until his face is so close you have no choice but to look at him. He narrows his eyes, only a little, and smiles, just the slightest bit. And he speaks in a smooth, slow voice, making certain you understand, about every terrible thing that will happen if you're foolish enough to act against his wishes. Manwë help you."  
  
From only inches away, Glorfindel watched Oropher's eyes widen in surprise before he shrank back. "Oh stars!" he whispered. "That's horrible, you even look a bit like him when you do that!" A wide grin broke across his face.   
"I love it! Do it to Emmith!"  
  
"I intend to," said Glorfindel. "But first I'm going back to sleep. Meet me back here as soon as the King's breakfast is done. Wear your best clothes. The more influential she thinks we are, the better this will work."  



	6. Prize

The plan was all for naught. Contrary to Glorfindel's expectations, Emmith stood exactly where she had promised to be upon his return. She waved as he approached, smiling pleasantly at him, while at the same time refusing to acknowledge that Oropher existed. It was the one eventuality he had not considered: Emmith deciding to cooperate and hold her end of the promise.

"So..." he said awkwardly as she linked her arm through his.

"So," she answered, "my house is just outside and up the road a short ways."

"And my ring is there?"

She nodded in an excessive, almost comical way. "Yes. Of course. I said it was, didn't I?"

Something in the lightness of her tone set Glorfindel's nerves on edge. She was acting far too cooperative. There had to be a catch. The further they progressed on their way out of the kitchens and through the maze of the tower's basement corridors, the more Glorfindel convinced himself that he was walking into a trap. Emmith had a brother. If he was anything like the majority of Eithel Sirion's sindarin men, he would be short but solidly built and muscular from years of work as a labourer. Was it the knowledge that he and several large friends lurked at home that motivated Emmith's compliance? As best he could without staring at her outright, he searched for any clues in her face and body. None could be found. He nonetheless knew in his gut that something unpleasant waited at the end of their walk.

"Oropher," he whispered sideways. "Stay close. I don't trust her and I am afraid of being alone with her."

Oropher nodded, but no sooner had he done so than Emmith cheerfully announced, "Here we are!"

"This is your house?" Glorfindel asked. He gave the cottage a quick appraisal. It was small but tidy, squeezed between two others that looked nearly identical, with a tiny, fenced-off square of garden space on either side of the path leading up to the front door. Someone had set flowers in a cup on the windowsill.

"I live here with my parents, my brother, and my two aunties who aren't married yet. They're twins and almost the same age I am."

"Oh," said Glorfindel. He stared at the door, listening for anything ominous hiding beyond, but he could hear nothing above the usual sounds of the neighbourhood. It did nothing to settle his sense of unease.

Emmith tugged on his arm. "Well, come on!" She led him down the narrow path to the door, and he had to turn sideways and walk behind her to avoid tripping over the low garden fences. They appeared to have been trodden on and mended in places with string. Emmith pushed open the door, pulled Glorfindel inside, and shut it again in Oropher's face.

"Oy!" came an angry shout from outside.

"He can't come in," Emmith said to Glorfindel. She stood with her back against the door and her left hand fiddling to fasten the latch. "Just you and me."

Glorfindel forced his mouth into some semblance of a smile while his heart pounded in his chest, so loud that Emmith could surely hear. She was, beyond a doubt, up to something. The way she smirked at him and licked her lips held a secret message. "No-one else home?" he asked. And added, silently, _No brother waiting to pummel my head into the floor?_

"No-one." Humming to herself, she crossed the room in slow, graceful steps, brushing against Glorfindel's shoulder as she went. "That's my parents' room," she said as she pointed to the first of two doors along the cottage's back wall. "Brother sleeps in this room here by the fire. And that," she pointed to the right-hand door on the back wall; "is my room. I share with my aunties. Only three rooms in the house, but it's good enough for us. We mostly can eat in the tower kitchens and only time everyone's home all together is at night."

"And my ring?"

"In my room. I put it under the mattress, like you did."

Glorfindel could see when she opened the bedroom door that Emmith had no bedframe. Her bed was a large but thin mattress on the floor, and she certainly shared it with her two aunts: it was the only bed in the room. She knelt down beside it, round bottom sticking up in the air, and groped underneath toward the middle. "Ahh," she said. "There we are."

"Thank you," Glorfindel said quickly. "That's wonderful, Emmith."

Standing, she dangled the ring from its chain, swinging it back and forth and then in a complete circle around her finger. "It's a pretty ring."

"Yes. It was my mother's. Now can I please-"

"Looks rich, too. Made of solid gold?"

"Yes," he repeated. He took a step forward, reaching for the ring, but Emmith matched him in stepping back.

"I bet it's worth a good purse of coin. How're you going to thank me for giving it back?"

"Thank you for..." Glorfindel choked. "I'm not going to thank you! You stole it from me! You should be the one thanking me for not reporting you for thievery!"

"Oh, don't be such a dead rat," she cooed. "You'll like the thanks I have in mind."

The ring on the chain whipped in a spiral, coiling around her fingers and coming to rest in the palm of her greedy hand. The other hand toyed with the knot at the front of her apron. A few deft movements and the apron had come untied and fallen to the floor, and Emmith looked to Glorfindel with a knowing smile.

He swallowed the sudden lump of panic in his throat. "No," he said, though his voice had far less authority than he needed. "No. No. Not a chance. I told you last night-"

"You told me last night you were tired and your chest hurt," she said. "You're better now, aren't you?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good. So off with your clothes and get into bed."

Clutching his arms across his chest, Glorfindel took a quick step backward. His shoulders hit the wall with a solid thud. "My clothes are not coming off! Just give me the ring!"

"After you thank me for it."

She was surprisingly quick, and surprisingly strong. In the space of what felt like a mere blink, she had shut the bedroom door and pressed herself up against his chest, pulling his arms apart in an attempt to reach the fastenings on his tunic. She was at least as strong as he was; he could keep her from prying his arms away, but not move them into a better position across his body. "Emmith, stop it!" he shouted. "I am not taking my clothes off, and I am not getting into bed with you!"

"Why not?" she gasped. Her face had turned red and ugly with the effort of trying to overpower him. Failing, she dug her nails into the exposed skin below the bracelets at his wrists. "Are those stories about you true then?"

The pain of the biting nails coupled with Emmith's words threw Glorfindel's resistance off balance. "What?" he asked, as Emmith managed to pin one arm to the wall. "What stories?"

"That you don't chase after any of the girls because you're devoted to the Prince Fingon."

She pinned his other arm with no trouble at all. The shock of her accusation sapped away all of his strength, leaving him dumbfounded and trapped against the bedroom wall with her bosom tight against his stomach and her mouth nearly touching one of his tunic clasps. "I am... _not_... devoted... to _Fingon_!" he stammered.

"Then why aren't you friendly with any of the girls? All the other fellows are."

"All the other fellows are mindless, immoral animals!" said Glorfindel. "I don't act that way. It's sinful."

Emmith stared at him as if he were the stupidest thing she had ever seen. "It's sinful to lie with girls?"

"Yes!" he said. And then qualified, "Before marriage, I mean. After marriage, of course you can lie together. To make children."

Releasing his arms, Emmith stepped back. "You... really think... But what about you and Prince Fingon? Everybody knows."

"That's different. And also no concern of yours."

"Different how?" she asked. "Are you married to him? I bet you act like his wife. You wear that dancing costume you wore for the play and all your make-up."

Glorfindel's jaw clenched. "I do not," he hissed through his teeth.

"Oh Fingon!" Emmith sang in a high, false-feminine voice, planting loud kisses on the backs of her hands. "Oh, I love you so much!"

" _I do not love Fingon_!" Glorfindel shouted. He leapt forward, grabbing Emmith's arms as she had held his, but it was a triumphant grin, not fear, that spread across her face.

"Then prove it!" she said. "If you don't love him, but you share his bed, you should have no trouble here with me."

"And I have no love for you, either! What's the purpose of this, Emmith? I can't and won't stay with you."

She tipped her head to the side and laughed: a loud, brash sound rolling up from her throat. "Stay! Why would I want you to stay? Idiot! This is a one-time offer only. I have no interest in you."

"But..." Blinking, he let go of her arms. Emmith, like women in general, made little sense. A moment ago she had been in a frenzied state of attack, ready to tear off his clothes. Now she professed disinterest. "Then... why..."

"To win," she said smugly. Then, in answer to the confusion that he knew showed plainly in his eyes, she continued. "I'm not in love with you, halfwit. I don't even think you're that fair, like some girls do. Me, I like thindren men. You look like them golodhrim, tall and skinny like a pole, long nose and sharp eyes. Not for me. But there is a prize out on you, and I want it."

"A... a prize?

"First girl gets in your bed wins."

The answer was so absurd that Glorfindel would have staggered and fallen, had his knees not been locked with the tension of battle. He could do no more than gape and stare, wide-eyed, at Emmith, who continued her explanation with all the gravity of a discussion on the weather.

"It started as a joke, see. Everyone thought you were so high and mighty with your nose in the stars that some girls agreed the first one who catches you gets a silver coin. But that was six years ago. Time went on, the prize got bigger. Then just this morning you came into the kitchens and all those other girls thought you looked so fine in your clothes, Ranthil said whichever girl got you should have a whole year off kitchen duties. We all agreed. So now you see why I brought you here? I want a whole year of Ranthil and the others doing my work in the kitchens. A whole year I can have free and go find a husband and get out of this horrible city. All it takes is one tumble with you and that's all mine."

"Oh," he sighed. A light of relief was in sight. "So if that be the case, we could both just say we did it. I could swear by the King's crown that I lay with you. We needn't actually-"

"Yes, we do," she said firmly. "Maybe you're too thick to see the truth when it up and smacks you in the face, but I can smell a lie like a rotten fish and Ranthil's no idiot neither. One good look in your eyes and she'd see right through your fibs. I'm taking no chances. We have to do this proper. Now take off your clothes. You think I have all day?"

~

Even with nothing said, Oropher could guess well enough at what had happened between Glorfindel and Emmith behind locked doors. His face had taken on a frightening scowl, and he growled through pursed lips with every breath. Glorfindel found it impossible to look him in the eye as they walked back to the tower.

"So..." Glorfindel began, "I... ah... I have my ring back."

Oropher hissed loudly and said nothing.

"My knife, too, and even the hair ties. She gave it all back. That's good, isn't it? Very good..."

"I s'pect that's not all she gave you," Oropher huffed.

"What?"

Grabbing Glorfindel by the arm, Oropher stepped quickly in front to block the way. His free hand hovered over the little dagger Glorfindel knew he kept hidden under his belt. "So?" he spat. "You better tell me. You and her together now?"

"Together... what?" Frowning, Glorfindel tried to step back, but Oropher's grip on his arm was sound. "No! No, Oropher, you have it all wrong!"

"Wrong?" he shouted. "What part do I have wrong? That you and Emmith stayed alone in that house for full on over an hour, after she was being sweet on you the whole way over?"

"The part where you think I'm somehow in love with her, or she with me!"

Oropher's eyes narrowed into fierce slits. "Did you or didn't you just fuck her in that house?"

"I... well... I did, but..."

With another growl, Oropher released Glorfindel's arm, but only to free both hands for a solid shove to Glorfindel's chest. "Why?!"

"Oropher, I had no choice!"

"Dog's balls you didn't! What'd she do, tie you up?!"

"Nearly!" Glorfindel shouted back. "Will you calm down a moment and let me explain?"

Oropher drew a breath, letting his mouth hang open as if to refuse, but then he appeared to change his mind. He smacked his fists against his legs, spat on the ground, and glared at Glorfindel. "Try to explain, but you won't convince me."

"Look," said Glorfindel, holding up his arms in a gesture of peace. "She wouldn't give me my ring back without... you know. But it was for no personal reason!" he quickly added as Oropher's scowl grew. "I swear, Oropher, on whatever you want me to swear on, by the grace of Manwë Himself, she is not in love with me. She doesn't even like me! Actually she thinks I'm ugly. She prefers thindren men."

For a moment, Oropher stood still as a rock, simply breathing and glaring with a hawkish look in his eye. "You're only saying that," he finally said. "You're only saying that so I don't plough your face in."

"No. I'm not. I swear, that is what she told me. She prefers thindren men, she has no interest in me, and the only reason she insisted I ... uh... was because she and the other kitchen girls have a wager going."

The anger in Oropher's face half vanished. "A wager?"

"Yes, a wager to... uh..." It made Glorfindel cringe to admit it to himself, much less say it aloud. "Oh, you can guess what the wager was about! Anyhow, Emmith won, and that's the only reason she had any interest in me, and now she can go about doing whatever she does with the fellows she actually likes. And I can go to sleep, die of embarrassment, and never wake up."

Huffing, Oropher crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you saying you find Emmith embarrassing?"

"No! I'm saying..." He sighed. "I argued and argued with her until it just became pointless, and then I convinced myself, oh, why not... How is it any different from being with Fingon, after all? And it'll be a practice round for..." _Idril_. Her name came to mind before he could stop it. "For the future. But then as soon as we started..."

"What, you finish too soon?" Oropher snorted.

"No. I wish it were that, but no... It went on forever. She took it upon herself to teach me all kinds of things that decent people would never do. I'm sure most of it was illegal. Then when she finally decided she was done, I couldn't finish. It was impossible. I was tired and horrified and wishing I could be anywhere else, and Oropher, if you don't stop laughing..."

It had taken only seconds from Oropher to slip from a frenzy of rage into to helpless laughter. And while it annoyed Glorfindel to no end to have to stand and accept it, at least Oropher was no longer angry. Dignity could be sacrificed for the sake of friendship. "It's really not that funny," he muttered.

"Yes..." gasped Oropher. "Oh yes it is... Emmith thinks she can leave me and have her way with you... well... She gets what she deserves!" He doubled over, almost touching his head to his knees, and laughed so hard he started to choke.

"I'm glad you're amused," said Glorfindel. "Truly, it's not that funny. This is the second-worst day of my life."

Oropher looked up and coughed as he wiped tears from the corner of his eye. "Second-worst? Oh, LL, please, you have to tell me about the worst now! This is too good!"

"The worst will be tomorrow. When Emmith has had time to tell everyone in the tower what happened. Now I'm glad you find this so amusing, but quit being an ass. Let's go find some food."

He started back toward the tower again and Oropher, still laughing and coughing but at least able to stand up again, staggered behind.

"Tomorrow!" Oropher howled. "Oh, tomorrow'll be great!"

"Fantastic, since you seem to take so much delight in my misery. You know what? You can stay here. I'll go back to my room alone, where I won't have to listen to your asinine braying or-"

He stopped in mid-sentence and mid-step, and groaned. "Oh, Valar, I almost forgot."

"Forgot about Emmith's-" Oropher began, but Glorfindel interrupted with a snap.

"No. Shut your pig's mouth. I have to go to the market and buy Fingon more orange oil. And I might as well go now, since I'm over here."

Determined not to look at Oropher, he turned around. The most direct route to the market led, unfortunately, back past Emmith's house. He would have to take a detour and would end up wasting time. "You can stay here and laugh for all I care," he told Oropher. "If you're lucky, someone might come along and crown you village idiot."

"No..." said Oropher. "I think I'll come with you. More fun. I know! You can buy a potion to help enhance your bedroom skills. They sell those for golodhren men, you know. Oh, wait. I forgot. You have no money. You gave it all to me!"

He grinned stupidly. Glorfindel shook his head and kept walking.

"Hey, how you think you'll buy Fingon's orange oil if you have no money, hum?"

Glorfindel patted the purse hidden beneath the heavy folds of his robe; it made the satisfactory sound of many coins clinking. Behind him, he heard Oropher stomp to a halt.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Fingon gave me the money. He asked me to come buy the oil, and he gave me enough money to do so. Where else would I get it?" He turned around only long enough to scowl at Oropher.

Oropher, it appeared, had suddenly lost his sense of humour. His eyes had narrowed again, and the way his teeth were clenched looked as if they barely held back a tide of foul language.

"What now?" Glorfindel shouted. "What in the world is wrong with you today? All morning you've been wildly darting from one mood to the next with only the slightest bit of provocation! Are you still drunk from the wedding? This is ridiculous!"

Whether or not Oropher heard or paid any attention was impossible to tell. Once again, he was balanced on the delicate edge of a fit. "Fingon gave you the money? How much? And why?"

"To buy bath oil! I just told you! And I have no idea how much; I haven't counted it. A handful."

To judge by the hard look on his face, Oropher still had no intention of believing anything Glorfindel told him. "All I know is this," he said. "Yesterday you had one kulusta in your pocket one more upstairs. Now you have a whole new purse? And Fingon just gave it to you?"

"That's right," said Glorfindel. "He gave me the money to buy the oil. And it's not mine," he quickly added as Oropher's mouth jumped open. "I am using Fingon's money to buy Fingon's perfume oil for Fingon's use. So you can quit looking at me as if I stole from you. Which I did not. Nor did I cheat you in any way. You agreed to what I paid you yesterday, and I did pay you. Any money I was given after the fact has nothing to do with that."

Oropher shut his mouth, but his suspicious frown only deepened.

"Now are you going to stop acting like a child and come with me to the market, or, better yet, leave me alone, or do you plan on standing around here all day being unreasonable and insane?"

"I'll come," Oropher muttered. He scuffed his shoes on the road as he stepped forward, demonstrating exactly how much he trusted Glorfindel. "But only to make sure you don't buy anything other than Fingon's oil."

~

Glorfindel had little interest in the market of Eithel Sirion. Unlike the loud, crowded, and exciting markets in Valmar, Eithel Sirion's marketplace was nothing more than a dirt square sparsely decorated with a few poor booths. Only two of those sold anything besides food. One displayed cheap jewellery that soldiers bought for easily impressed girls, and the other offered medicines, perfumes, and other things that came in bottles, all imported from the south. Glorfindel, followed by a still-unhappy Oropher, headed toward the bottle booth. It had a curious smell about it. All the various perfumes had mixed with the odour of medicines and other more dubious concoctions to tinge the air with something that had the feel of being not entirely safe.

"I need a bottle of perfume oil," Glorfindel told the vendor. "Silver bottle, if you have it. I'm not fond of glass."

"Scent?"

"Orange. Just orange. Undiluted."

The vendor was a shifty-looking man, with skin hardened by travel and small, wide-set eyes that he used to give Glorfindel a thorough appraisal. His hands, dirty and callused but with thin, elegant fingers, tapped out a little rhythm on the countertop. "Hmm," he said. And then, "No."

"'No'?" Glorfindel asked. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean 'no' as in 'no'. I can't sell you orange. It's protected."

"What do you mean, 'protected'?"

"You must have sand for brains, boy, if you can't understand simple words like 'no' and 'protected'," said the vendor. "It means I can't sell it to you. That scent is the property of Prince Findekáno. Some things are protected for the use of royalty only. Just like you can't ask the dyers to make you fabric of indigo or black, you can't ask me to give you orange oil. But," he added in the more pleasantly deferential voice of a salesman, "I can mix you an original, one-of-a-kind perfume of orange and anything else you desire. I recommend orange and mint. Wonderful combination. Is this for you or a gift for a lady friend?"

"It's for Prince Findekáno," Glorfindel said shortly. "He sent me to buy it for him."

The vendor let out a little bark of laughter. "Ha! Of course it is, son. You think I've not heard that line before?"

"But it's true!" Glorfindel insisted. "He sent me on an errand to buy it. I'm his servant, you know."

"No, I don't know. I'm away from the city most of the year, and I keep no record of who is servant to whom. Did he by chance give you a note of authority?"

"No..."

"Then how am I to know who you are?" the vendor asked smugly. "You could be anyone with a fancy to smell like royalty."

"That's ridiculous," said Glorfindel. "I don't even like orange oil. I told you, it's for Findekáno."

"But how can I know that?"

Glorfindel closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Everything would have to be so difficult. "I don't know how to prove I am who I am. I just know I need to buy the oil for Findekáno."

"But he sent you with no note."

"No. He gave me only a bag of coins and told me- Wait! The bag!"

He should have realised it sooner. Fumbling in his haste, he pulled the coin purse from inside his robe and set it down before the vendor. "There! You see? A black coin purse embroidered with Findekáno's own emblem: a nine-pointed white star. It's his money. I am using it to buy the oil for him."

Slowly, with more suspicion than care, the vendor examined the bag of coins. He lifted it to scrutinise the bottom, and picked at the embroidered star with his dirty fingernails.

"I think that proves it," said Glorfindel. "This is obviously Findekáno's. Now will you please sell me the oil?"

"I don't know," sighed the vendor. "This could be stolen. And there'll be no end of trouble for me if I sell you orange oil without the proper authority."

"There'll be more than trouble for you if you don't hand over the oil and the Prince has to come down here himself!" Oropher shouted from Glorfindel's side. "This is stupid! You're wasting our time!"

"Oropher," Glorfindel began, but Oropher's harsh words had the desired effect.

The vendor nervously ran his tongue over his lips; the threat of Fingon making a personal appearance in full wrath was clearly enough for him. "Very well," he said. "Wait here a moment."

He disappeared behind a hanging drape into the back of his booth, which released a waft of new scents. As soon as he had gone, Oropher rolled his eyes.

"What an idiot."

"I know," Glorfindel murmured. "But keep quiet, and no more fusses, at least until I have the oil. I can't afford to have him refuse the sale."

Shrugging, Oropher glanced around at the display of bottles. "If you say so. Hey, what d'you suppose that is?"

"I don't know," said Glorfindel. He leaned over to examine the jar, full of some bizarre, slimy puffs that looked like mushrooms crossed with seaweed. The label had been written in the runes of the Sindar to the south. "I can't read it."

Above the shelf with the odd mushroom jar stood a collection of dull green bottles, each with a label in runes, and beside them, cups full of various dried herbs. Another shelf held stranger things: dried fish, animal claws, tiny bones, and enormous seed pods. On the opposite side were more glass bottles in all colours, some decorated with wire or jewels; they surely held the perfumes. And on a high shelf, above the rest, sat three miniature silver phials. Each was smaller than Glorfindel's little finger, but had been etched all over with a fine pattern of scrollwork. They looked very familiar.

He nudged Oropher's arm and motioned for him to look up, but before he could explain, the vendor returned from the back.

"Here we are. One bottle of orange oil, pure, in silver as requested. Thirty-two kulustar."

Glorfindel heard Oropher's breath hitch at the outrageous price, but he held his own shock to himself and merely nodded before counting out the coins from Fingon's purse.

"Thirty-two!" he heard Oropher whisper.

"Too rich for you, my boy?" the vendor laughed. "It should be. This oil is one of the rarest items I trade. It comes from far away to the south-east. Even down in those lands it is a luxury for the rich. Up here... it is the property of princes only."

"And what your single rarest item?" Glorfindel asked.

"Ah," the vendor answered with a self-congratulatory clap of his hands. "My rarest would be this." Turning, he reached to the high shelf and took down one of the small silver phials. "From the Nandorin lands over the mountains: a poppy decoction. Nothing else in the world is like it." He held it up next to his face, safely out of the reach of Glorfindel and Oropher. "This, lads, is the glory of the Valar in a bottle."

Glorfindel forced himself to unclench his teeth. "How much?"

Again, the vendor laughed, in a superior and mocking tone. "How much! You don't even know what it is!"

"I know exactly what it is, and what it does," said Glorfindel. "What I don't know is how much it costs."

What had previously been a sly grin fell into a jealous frown. "Where did you learn about this?"

"Around," said Glorfindel. "Please, we just finished the argument in which we established I am employed by Findkáno. I am far more important than you realise. Now stop treating me like a halfwit and tell me how much it costs."

"Sixty," the vendor said flatly, and his scowl deepened. "Not something you could ever afford, I wager."

"Sixty!" Oropher shouted.

With a pleasant smile, Glorfindel bowed to the perfume vendor. "Thank you. I should be back shortly to purchase it. Please be certain you do not sell your stock to anyone else before I return."

The vendor only shook his head and turned his shoulder to them. "Get out of here."

 

~

"Sixty kulustar!"

"I need it."

"But sixty kulustar!"

"I know!" shouted Glorfindel. "But I need it. Fingon hid his bottle. Now I have to buy one of my own."

Oropher did not look convinced. "What is that stuff, even?"

"Nothing. Nothing important. It doesn't matter. I just need it."

They rounded the fourth floor landing and continued up the stairs to the fifth. Glorfindel, with orange oil safely in hand, needed to return to his bedroom. He needed a quiet place, and he needed to think. More urgently, he needed sixty kulustar. He needed the poppy bottle. When his theft of Fingon's supply had been discovered he had been too dazed to think of what the consequences would be, but those were clear now. Fingon's bottle was gone. He had no more access. And now that he had seen the little phial by the perfume vendor, his acute need for it was overwhelming.

"You'll never get it. Fingon'll never give you the money. Not that much."

"I know," Glorfindel muttered. They came to the landing of the fifth floor, and he stopped, leaning against the column that bordered the corridor. Fingon never gave him anywhere near that sum of money, unless it was to buy an item like the orange oil. Never had Glorfindel seen any such amount for his own personal use. He received an adequate but limited allowance, which let him purchase finer clothing and small luxuries that other servants could not afford. But still, he never had more than three or four kulustar to call his own at any given time. It would take years of doing without to save enough.

"I could sell something..." he began, but dismissed the idea as soon as he had spoken. There was nothing to sell. His clothes were worth nowhere near sixty kulustar, nor were his few pieces of jewellery. He owned exactly two things that would earn him any worthwhile amount of coin in the market, and he was willing to part with neither of them: his mother's ring, and the gold bracelets from Fingon.

"No, I can't sell anything," he admitted. "If I sold everything I own, I might have enough to buy one bottle. And how long would that last? A year? Then what would I do?"

"Forget you ever saw it," said Oropher. "You didn't want it until you saw it there, so forget about it."

"I can't. I need it. I only have to think of some other way to get the money. Or find Fingon's bottle... That might be easier. I should look for that."

He needed to think. Whether about ways to amass sixty kulustar or places Fingon may have hidden the poppy decoction, it made little difference. He just needed to think. Too many worries had started to gather in his head.

"I need to be alone for a while," he said to Oropher. "I need to think this through. There has to be a better way."

Oropher looked less than convinced. "If you say so. But if you want to know what I think..."

"Not right now," said Glorfindel, though his words were interrupted by a loud bang. A door down the corridor had been flung open, and the noise of three voices in hearty laughter tumbled out. One of those voices sounded uncomfortably familiar. Glorfindel groaned. "Oh no. Not him..."

"Who?" whispered Oropher.

Glorfindel had time only to answer, "Fingon's brother," before three men rounded the curve of the wall. Turgon stepped one half-pace ahead, arrayed in his king's finery and flanked on either side by two well decorated guards in his livery.

"A-ha!" he cried the moment he spied Glorfindel. "What have we here? Indis, is it?"

Bristling, Glorfindel stood up straighter. So Turgon was no longer satisfied with merely ignoring him, nor treating him as a stupid and useless peon. Now it had to be mocking hostility. "Sir."

"Not lazing about in my brother's bed today?" he asked. "Oh, but I beg your pardon. I was mistaken. You were _on_ his bed, rather than _in_. Such an important distinction."

The guards at Turgon's sides laughed too loudly at their lord's supposed wit, which only fuelled the bright spark of hatred steadily growing in Glorfindel's chest. He raised his eyebrow at the dark-haired guard before answering Turgon in as cold a voice as he could muster. "No, sir. In fact I have not seen your brother all day. I have been out of the tower conducting his business."

"Yes," said Turgon, "I can only imagine the numerous business uses he has for you. But did you know? We were speaking of you just now, my men and I."

Glorfindel's stomach tightened. "Is that so."

A conspiratorial glance passed between Turgon and his guards, and they grinned at their common joke. "It is so. Did you know that you share a name with my friend and kinsman here?"

He gestured to the man at his left, who stepped forward and gave a deep bow. It was meant as no measure of respect, Glorfindel knew, but served only to show off his remarkable hair: as Vanyarin golden as Glorfindel's own, gleaming even in the dim light of the tower. He stood up again with an expression of sly superiority on his face.

It was a small consolation to Glorfindel that this Vanya had rather flat, common features, and, more interestingly, an outline tattoo of Varda's Star on the back of each hand. He was no noble; not by far. His father had certainly been a soldier. Which meant that either Turgon had lied about their kinship, or it was so remote as to be negligible.

"I suppose you can guess his name," Turgon continued. "He is my good friend Laurefindil. So here we have Laurefindil of Vinyamar and Laurefindil of Hisiómë. What a charming meeting."

"Wonderful," Glorfindel replied. "May I beg your leave? I have things to attend."

"Of course, of course," said Turgon, waving his hand. "I shan't keep you. Only we thought you should know, Laurefindil of Hisilómë, that it is terribly confusing for us to have the two of you so named."

"Very confusing," the dark-haired guard echoed, and Laurefindil of Vinyamar nodded in agreement.

"Thus we have decided that you, Laurefindil of Hisilómë, will henceforth be called Laurefindiel. On account of how you are such a pretty girl."

Turgon grinned widely at his announcement, and the other two followed his lead, revelling in their own cleverness. Glorfindel clenched his hands into fists. He squeezed the silver oil bottle with the entirety of his strength, thankful it was not glass, and filtered all of his rage into its smooth shape. He only needed his face to remain calm. Even if his body shook with anger, he had to focus with all his power of will and appear calm. Strangling Fingon's brother in front of two biased witnesses would do him no good.

"That is very funny," he said. "I will remember it. Laurefindiel. Very witty. Now I really must go. By your permission, sir."

"Absolutely," said Turgon. "I give you leave to go about your business, Laurefindiel. Go make my brother happy like the good wife you are."

The three continued on their way, down the stairs to leave Glorfindel and Oropher alone once more. Glorfindel, too angry to speak, closed his eyes to concentrate on steadying his shallow breathing. Oropher shuffled nervously.

"Well, he's an ass."

"I know," Glorfindel hissed.

"At first I was going to try to talk you out of hunting for sixty kulustar but now I changed my mind. Now I think you should steal it from that horse's cunny."

"I could do," answered Glorfindel. Slowly, he exhaled, and drew in a careful, measured breath. "Oropher," he said, speaking almost as low as a growl. "I am tired of being mocked. Today has been trying. And I have taken it. But I won't swallow any more."

"Well, that's easy to say," said Oropher. "But how d'you think you'll do telling a king he can't poke fun at you?"

"I won't tell him. Obviously, I can't. But I can take my revenge on him."

"By stealing the sixty kulustar?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No... I mean, I could do that, too, but it's not enough. If I steal money from him, who likely has a good-size treasury, he might not even notice. If he does, he'd just as soon blame the laundry maid or fire boy or one of his own servants. He wouldn't know it was me, and it would only make him angry, not cause personal offence."

"You want the personal offence," said Oropher.

"Right."

"How?"

"I have one idea."

He tossed the bottle of orange oil into the air and caught it with his other hand, then gestured to Fingon's bathing room door. "Grab me one of Fingon's robes, will you? It needn't be a good one. I'll be waiting a few doors down."

By Oropher's expression, he had no idea what to make of the order, but nonetheless went to carry it out without question. He disappeared behind Fingon's door, and Glorfindel, tossing the orange oil and catching it again, strolled slowly down the corridor to a door toward the opposite end. Turgon had gone too far. Now, it was time to repay the favour.

He knocked twice, and after a moment the door opened just enough for a suspicious blue eye to peer out.

"Who is it?" asked Idril. And then, with a grunt, "Oh. You. What do you want?"

"I am here to apologise," said Glorfindel. "I treated you very poorly last night, and I feel terrible because of it. Only I was overwhelmed by your loveliness, and not thinking well. Also I didn't want to take advantage of you..."

"So?" she snapped.

"So, it was wrong of me to start all that silly talk of marriage last night. I was only trying to be polite, and I'm sorry if we had a misunderstanding because of it."

"Fine," said Idril. "Now go away. Melessë is sleeping in the next room and I'm supposed to be having my nap."

"I'm also sorry," Glorfindel added before she shut the door, "for not respecting your wishes last night. You are a princess, after all. And this morning I was nearly kicking myself for not having done as you requested, as a good courtier would do."

"Your loss! Now go away before-"

"I would also like to make you an offer," he interrupted.

She narrowed her visible eye, then opened the door a little more until her entire face could peek through. "What offer?"

With a smile to her, he pulled one of Fingon's black robes from the arms of Oropher, who had appeared with what looked like an entire laundry basket in tow. "I will make things right. I will be your Findekáno, if you wish. I will wear his clothes, and his perfume..." He unstoppered the orange oil bottle and held it out for her to smell. "I will do anything you request of me; anything you need. My Princess."

The suspicious gleam in her eyes held on a moment longer, then faded into something new. Something knowing and wicked. Her lips curved into a mischievous arch around the tip of her pink tongue, just visible through her teeth.

"Very well. I suppose you'd better come in, then."


	7. Jewels

He woke with a start, feeling the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and looked up in confusion. His eyes were blurred, and he was cold, groggy, and, for some strange reason, partially underwater. It took a moment for his thoughts to clear; he shook his head.

"Get up," said Fingon, or at least a voice that sounded very like Fingon.

"Where am..." he began, but stopped. The memories had started to fall neatly back into place. He blinked, rubbed his eyes with wet, water-wrinkled hands, and squinted down at his naked self. The bath: he must have fallen asleep in the bath, hours earlier. The water had turned cold.

"You are in my bathtub," Fingon said. "As you can see. But as to why you are here: that, I cannot answer. I am wondering the same thing myself.

Glorfindel yawned, stretched, and tried to stand. His legs and bottom hurt horribly, and his shoulders as well. After sitting in stillness for so long, every movement made the muscles ache. "I feel like... like..." He could not finish the sentence. Fingon was too observant. If he admitted how he felt, how stiff with exhaustion he was, Fingon could too easily guess what had happened and what he had done. The only time he ever had a full bath in the middle of the afternoon was following...

Quickly, he looked at the floor and tried to think of anything but Idril to keep from blushing. Money: he could think safely on money. He still needed sixty kulustar.

"You feel like what?" Fingon asked after an awkward pause. "No, honestly, Lauron. Why are you in the bath? I thought your Vanyarin code of whatever it is you follow required you to bathe before bed. We are having supper directly. You'll only need to wash again later."

"The orange oil," Glorfindel lied. "It was still on my skin from the bottle I broke last night. I didn't think it appropriate that I should see your brother tonight, smelling of your perfume."

"Yes, well, that's a small worry compared to all the other faults he can find in you," Fingon growled. "Let's not add tardiness to the list. So, out of the bath, and go dress yourself. Supper is in less than an hour."

Nodding, Glorfindel stepped from the tub and wrapped himself in the waiting bath sheet. As long as he could keep the conversation on the subject of supper and clothing, there was a chance he could escape without Fingon questioning him further about the bath. And, as an extension, without Fingon finding out what he had done. "Dress how?" he asked. "What sort of supper is it?"

"A family supper," said Fingon. He was clearly agitated, which, Glorfindel thought with relief, worked very nicely. Agitation meant his mind was elsewhere. "Dress in whatever manner you wish, Lauron; I honestly do not care. You could wear animal skins or a silken robe fit for Manwë Himself, and it would make no difference."

"Something nice, then?"

"If it please you." Scowling, he threw open the doors to his own wardrobe and began flipping through the clothing with a look of blatant disgust. "Nothing... nothing... nothing..." he hissed, seemingly to himself.

Glorfindel watched for a moment while hastily dressing. "Do you... ah... need help finding something to wear?"

"No," Fingon snapped, but immediately reconsidered. "Wait. Yes. Yes, I do. Come here, and choose what you would wear."

"What I would-"

"What you would wear. If you had to dress yourself in my clothing, what would you choose? For you. Not for me."

Accustomed to choosing Fingon's clothing to fit Fingon's stark preferences, Glorfindel surveyed the contents of the wardrobe. None of it appealed to his tastes. A wall of blackness stared back at him, broken only by the occasional glint of silver trim or gold detailing. "Have you anything... not black?"

"Of course not," said Fingon.

Glorfindel sighed and squinted at the choices before him. One protruding sleeve, at least, appeared to be made of a fabric shot through with the occasional strand of very fine silver, lending a subtle sheen. Silver purl decorated the cuffs and collar, and a grey sash of the same pattern of liberally applied purl lay folded beneath. "I suppose this one isn't bad."

"You're right," said Fingon. He pulled the robe out and held it at arm's length to examine it. "This is truly the gaudiest and most excessive piece of clothing I own. Thank you."

Clenching his teeth, Glorfindel said nothing. He stepped back to watch as Fingon dressed. To his eyes, the robe appeared to be neither gaudy nor excessive. It was, in fact, rather plain. He would have preferred to see some crystals worked in among the purl designs, and perhaps a continuation of the decorative pattern down the front edges. The decoration was hardly big enough to be seen from across the room.

"Do you suppose I need jewellery on top of this?"

"Yes," said Glorfindel, nodding. "Most definitely. A silver collar, perhaps with jewels, and then earrings. And your circlet, and rings, and I should probably do your hair with some nice clasps."

"Yes," Fingon said, and he clapped his hands together. "Yes to all of it. Drape me in outrageous finery, Lauron. Everything you wish. I am at your mercy."

Glorfindel frowned slightly. Something in the tone of Fingon's voice made him wary. There had to be some catch to this somewhere, or some hidden agenda. Fingon would never willingly subject himself to such decoration; he never had before. Glorfindel eyed him warily as he donned the robe, but could tell nothing for certain beyond his nagging sense that something funny was at play.

"Jewels?" asked Fingon.

"You choose first," Glorfindel said carefully. "Choose what you think is appropriate, and I will give my opinion."

Fingon shrugged. "If you wish..." He opened the first jewellery case, running his hands over the contents before selecting his silver circlet, a delicate collar of plain silver links, and two rings. "Wait," he said. "On second thought, not the collar. It might be too much with all this..." he waved his hands toward the purl at his throat; "...glittering. I'll have earrings instead." Replacing the collar, he selected a pair of small, circular silver earrings. "How is this?"

"I thought you wanted finery," said Glorfindel.

"I do," Fingon answered. "And I have chosen some of my finest pieces. Why do you say that? Are they not large enough?"

"They are very... few. Here. You sit in the chair, and I will choose."

Glorfindel opened the four jewellery cases that sat on the table next to Fingon's wardrobe. The first he dismissed immediately, it being filled entirely with gold. The second, which Fingon had already perused, contained mainly rings and a few cuffs; he selected four rings set with different jewels and pearls, and a pair of wide silver cuffs etched with a coiling design. From the third he took a heavy collar set with alternating lozenges of ruby and onyx, and from the fourth, a small box containing only hair clasps in a variety of sizes. "And I suppose you can keep the earrings you have," he said, "though they are rather on the small side."

Fingon, staring at the selection laid out before him, said nothing. He opened his mouth and closed it again, biting down on his bottom lip as if considering what to say, or not to say.

"What?" Glorfindel asked, somewhat more sharply than he intended.

"Oh..." said Fingon." Nothing. Nothing. I only... Ah. You see, I have never before worn so many items, nor so many... well... varying colours of jewels. Would it not be better, do you think, to stick to, say, entirely white?"

"No," said Glorfindel. "That would be dull."

Again, Fingon opened and closed his mouth, but nodded as he did so. "Right. Of course, you are right. And I did ask for your opinion, so..." He held up the collar, clenching his jaw at the sight of it. "This was a gift from Ta, back when he still thought I was easily impressed by shows of wealth. I do not believe I've ever worn it. It is very... ah..."

"Beautiful," Glorfindel offered

"I was about to say, 'large'."

"No," said Glorfindel, shaking his head. "It is impressive, but not too large. The jewels are wonderful. Put it on."

Gingerly, Fingon draped the collar over his shoulders and arranged it across his chest. "Good stars. It weighs more than one of Ta's new dogs."

"Now the rings and the cuffs."

Fingon snapped the cuffs around his wrists and slid the numerous rings onto his fingers. "Hair?" he asked. "I dare not attempt it with all these ornaments about my hands. I'd entangle myself."

Taking up a comb from the dressing table, Glorfindel stepped behind Fingon, whose thick, black hair fell as an enticing sheet down his back. He had never been allowed to do anything remotely interesting with that hair. As with his clothing, Fingon preferred styles that were unvaryingly plain: usually two simple plaits. Glorfindel took a section between his fingers at the crown. "I think I shall give you a nice Vanyarin style," he said.

Fingon's answer came in the form of a dismissive wave of the hand. "As you will. Only hurry, as we are growing short on time."

"I can do three five-stranded plaits, which-"

A sharp intake of breath from Fingon interrupted him. "No," Fingon said. "No five-strands. Six-strands."

"Why not five?"

"It's the unluckiest of numbers. Use six."

"I can try," said Glorfindel, "but it really works better with an uneven number. Seven?"

Fingon shook his head, as much as he could with his hair in Glorfindel's hand. "Seven is entirely incompatible with my personal numerology."

Glorfindel sighed. "Nine?"

"Nine is perfect, thank you. Use nine."

As best he could, Glorfindel split his handful of Fingon's hair into nine rather unequal sections and began to weave them together. He was accustomed to five-stranded plaits. Seven strands were tricky, though not impossible, but attempting to work with nine was proving to be something of a disaster. Little catches of hair kept popping up or slipping loose. The second plait, beginning above Fingon's left ear, looked somewhat better, but the third, on the right side, was worse. He joined the three together at the back of Fingon's head with a wide silver clasp, letting the loose ends hang down.

Fingon lifted a hand to tentatively pat his hair. "Are you finished? How does it look?"

"Uh," said Glorfindel. From the back, it looked terrible. He took a quick few steps around Fingon's chair. From the front, it merely looked lumpy. "Give me a moment."

With a handful of jewelled pins, he set to work fixing the pieces that had escaped and smoothing sections that had twisted the wrong way. Larger clips and combs hid the worst parts. They made a small improvement.

"Lauron, what exactly are you doing?" Fingon asked. This time, he lifted both hands to pat the glittering cap of silver. "How many jewels did you use? This feels as if it looks stupid."

Wordlessly, Glorfindel took up the mirror from the dressing table and held it out for Fingon to see.

Fingon stared into the mirror with a face that held no expression whatsoever. He turned slightly to the left, then the right, and then dropped his head and covered his face with his hands, bending over until his elbows rested on his knees. Though he made no sound, his shoulders shook, either from weeping or from laughter; Glorfindel could not tell which.

It made him uneasy either way. "You did ask for nine strands," he muttered.

"I did," Fingon agreed. His voice, muffled through his sleeves, shook as well. He sat upright, biting down on his bottom lip and holding his breath, and regarded Glorfindel with a strange, strained smile.

Glorfindel's stomach squirmed. "So..."

"It's charming," said Fingon. His words were as strained as his smile. "Perfect. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" Glorfindel asked. "I can redo it if-"

"Oh, no. Nonono. This is lovely. Truly, lovely. I could not have done it better myself. Thank you, Lauron." He stood, once again gently patting his head with both hands. The odd smile remained fixed in place. "Now I really must hurry off to supper. You will join me as soon as you are able?"

"Uhm... Yes."

Fingon clapped him on the shoulder a little too heartily. "Splendid! I shall see you there." He flashed a grin that bordered on maniacal, then spun about in a swirl of glittering black and fled the room at almost a run. Glorfindel was left standing at the dressing table with a hair tie in one hand and the mirror in the other, wondering what in the world had just happened.

He blinked slowly and gave his head a little shake. Really, very little that Fingon did made sense, so this behaviour was nothing new. He gathered up the unused jewellery pieces from the table and returned them to their boxes, then stowed the boxes safely back in the wardrobe before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. There were more important things to do than worry about Fingon's hair. Dressing for supper sat atop the list.

Good clothes would be needed, to judge by the importance Fingon had implied. His second-best magenta robe was stained with dirt and stew from the previous night, but he had his best red and silver clean and waiting. No time remained to style his hair. A few clips and combs would have to suffice. He came down the stairs too absorbed in thought to fully pay attention to where he was going, and nearly tripped over a large pile of laundry just around the corner.

He stopped, checked himself, and looked again. The laundry pile had a head of silvery hair at its top, and what appeared to be the rough shape of arms and legs beneath a layer of fabric.

"...Oropher?"

Oropher raised his head with a sleepy blink. "Eh?"

"Why are you... wearing a blanket and sitting in the corridor?"

Yawning, Oropher stretched out to shed one blanket and reveal a second beneath. "I was napping."

"Why are you napping here?" asked Glorfindel. "Your bedroom is within spitting distance."

"Eh, well," Oropher said with a shrug. He cast an irritated glance down toward his bedroom door. "I can't right go in there just now, can I?"

"Why not?"

Oropher made a face and pursed his lips.

"Oh, never mind," said Glorfindel. "I'm sure I don't want to know anyhow. But I'm glad you're here. Get up. I need help choosing what to wear to supper."

"What sort of supper?"

"A very fancy one. The King will be there, and Finno, and Finno's brother, and likely everyone else important in the whole city."

"Idril?" Oropher asked as he yawned and stretched his way to his feet.

Glorfindel pretended not to hear.

"That why you need help dressing? To look nice for her?"

"Of course not," Glorfindel answered. It pleased him to realise that he meant what he said. The thought of dressing to please for Idril had not even crossed his mind. "I need to be appropriately dressed so as to reflect well on my Prince Fingon's station. Otherwise his brother will think poorly of us. Or something like that. I'm not entirely sure, and Finno didn't explain it to me."

"You... want to look nice for Fingon's brother?" Oropher asked.

"No!" snapped Glorfindel, though he found it impossible to think of anything further to say to refute that claim. If he admitted it to himself, it was Turgon's reaction he had in mind as he thought over the possible outfits he could wear. It was Turgon's opinion he needed to sway: Turgon and his idiot captains. "I mean," he added, "I don't want to look nice for him. I want to impress him. I need to wear something grand and intimidating."

"That might be a little difficult," said Oropher.

Glorfindel pushed the bedroom door open and stepped inside. "That's why I want your help. If you were Turgon, what would you find impressive?" He lifted the lid of his clothing chest to remove the red and silver robe, which he held up against his body for Oropher to see. "I was thinking of this one. Over a gold tunic with my gold sash and the opal pendant Finno gave me last New Year. Well, not just that. I think I had better use all of my jewels."

Oropher's eyebrows rose to an unusual height. "All of them?"

"Of course. How else can I show off that I have them?"

"Uh..." said Oropher. He let out a long breath with a _puu_ sound and rubbed the back of his neck. "But you have a lot of jewels now. Fingon gives you gifts all the time."

This much was true. Fingon was very fond of presenting Glorfindel with little gifts of jewellery, though, to be fair, only the items given for special occasions such as New Year held any real value. The rest were inexpensive trinkets made from low-grade alloys and coloured glass. "You're right," Glorfindel said slowly, nodding in agreement. He laid the red and silver robe across his bed and bent over the clothing chest again to pull out the various jewels from their hiding places. "I should only wear my good pieces. It would look silly to have things of different qualities."

From within the knotted sleeve of an old shirt he took the opal pendant from New Year. A pair of gold and sapphire earrings from the New Year prior had been hidden in a ripped stocking, and three rings came out from the fingers of three different gloves: two rings of real gold, one of which held an amethyst, and a ring of silver and pearl with four tiny diamonds. He had hidden his pewter collar set with emerald-like glass inside a balled-up pair of very wrinkled linen breeches. Though fake, it was one of his favourite pieces.

"Emmith's sticky hands didn't find any of that?" asked Oropher. His voice had started to slip back into surliness, and Glorfindel looked up sharply.

"No. I checked this morning. She only found what was under the mattress."

"Convenient for you..." Oropher muttered.

"Yes, it is convenient," snapped Glorfindel. "It's very convenient for me to have you standing there and moping because Emmith only had the chance to steal the few things of mine that held any sentimental value, and all on account of you hiding something in my room when it shouldn't have been in here in the first place."  
  
Oropher squirmed and glanced away, looking somewhat abashed, but did not apologise. He never apologised when he meant it. He crossed his arms and breathed loudly, then sat down hard on the far end of the bed.  
  
Glorfindel accepted the wordless fidgeting as the awkward apology it was meant to be. "Anyhow," he continued, "what do you think of these?" He spread out the collar so it surrounded the rings, earrings, and pendant in an attractive semicircle. There were only six items: not nearly enough to show off his importance in front of Turgon. He would need to find some hair clips as well, and perhaps a brooch to pin to his sash.  
  
"Fine," said Oropher. He still sounded surly, though no longer in an angry way.   
  
"You didn't even look."

"I don't need to. You'll wear everything no matter what I say."  
  
"What? No, I-"  
  
Oropher interrupted him with nothing more than a single, raised eyebrow. He fell silent and stared down at the jewels on the bed. Indeed, he had been planning to wear all of them. Only he had fully been expecting Oropher to agree with his assessment that the entire collection worked very well together. Or even suggest that it looked somewhat sparse, as he suspected. He still needed some hair clips. But the way Oropher regarded him, and regarded the jewels, was not quite right.  
  
He bit his lips. "Oropher..." he asked carefully, "do you think my tastes in fashion and jewellery are gaudy?"  
  
Without answering, Oropher looked away again. He had pursed his mouth shut, lips pressed so thin they almost ceased to exist, and his eyes seemed to strain with effort of holding something in. His face took on a flushed, pinkish tinge.  
  
"...Oropher?"  
  
His shoulders were shaking. Just like Fingon, with the same lack of any sort of sound, his shoulders, back and arms all shook. Unlike Fingon, though, Glorfindel could tell that Oropher shook with silent laughter.  
  
The thought was more than a little annoying. "I don't see how you can think that," said Glorfindel. His voice had a sharp edge to it, but he did not care. "I wear hardly as much jewellery as anyone else here. Probably less. Because I have much less. And I don't see how only six pieces and some hair clips can be gaudy. Does any of this look gaudy? No, I don't think so!"  
  
"But look at it!" Oropher said. The words burst out of him, followed by a little cadence of unchecked laughter. "None of it matches! You have a gold ring and a silver ring and diamond and pearl ring, and sapphire earrings, and an opal necklace, and that collar is huge and pewter with fake emeralds, and then a third ring with some purple stone in it-"  
  
"Amethyst. The purple stone is amethyst, and it is a symbol of purity and good judgement."  
  
"Right," snorted Oropher. "That's you all over. Anyhow, whatever it is, it doesn't go with blue and white and green and gold and silver and everything. The blue doesn't go and the white doesn't go, and nothing else goes. If you want my advice, which you never do, you should stay with all silver and red jewellery, to match your robe. How about that?"  
  
"How about not," muttered Glorfindel, though quietly enough that Oropher could not hear over the sounds of his own cackling. Once again, he looked at his selection. He could vaguely recall, though he had not been paying much attention at the time, Fingon having mentioned something similar about only wearing one colour of jewels. Now Oropher voiced the same opinion. In fact, now that he considered it, Oropher and Fingon were more alike in their tastes than anyone might casually suspect. Neither had any abiding interest in dressing up in nice clothing, and both avoided decorative jewels even when faced with the perfect opportunity to wear them. And they both had the same irritating, silent laugh, complete with shaking shoulders.  
  
Of course, they also both had terrible taste in finery, which meant it would be more than foolish to trust either one when it came to dressing for an important event. Glorfindel smiled to himself. Oropher might laugh, but only through ignorance. For one who spent every day with Fingolfin, he knew absolutely nothing about how to dress for the King's court.  
  
"Thank you, Oropher," Glorfindel said aloud. "Your opinion has been very enlightening." He gathered up his jewels to take them to his dressing table, and then, while Oropher watched and shook and laughed, proceeded to dress in his red and silver robe and all of his finery. He draped the collar carefully over his shoulders, hooked the earrings, slid the rings onto his fingers, and hung the pendant from his neck. Then he fixed his hair with some silver clips, which, though devoid of jewels, had been cut and polished in a clever way so that they still sparkled as if covered in diamonds.

Once done, the effect on the whole was underwhelming. He frowned, shifting from side to side to watch himself in the mirror from various angles, but he looked equally as unexceptional in profile as he did from the front. "I don't know..." he sighed. "Somehow, this isn't what I had in mind. What do you think?"  
  
"I think you look like you fell into a big pile of jewels and a few things randomly stuck."  
  
Much as he hated to admit that Oropher was right, he could see the truth in the statement. Despite his careful placement, everything still managed to look haphazard and hastily thrown together. He sat down on the bed at Oropher's side with a huff and dropped his chin into his hands. "Oh, it's pointless. I'll never be able to annoy Turgon looking like this."  
  
"I thought you wanted to impress him."  
  
"Impress, annoy, same thing," said Glorfindel. "Really, I want to insult him, but I can't safely do that. He's the King of Vinyamar."  
  
Oropher nodded slowly. "True," he agreed. "But you know, whenever I want to annoy somebody in an insulting way, I do exactly what I know he hates."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Such as, whenever the King asks me to attend to him for some dull evening, I make a point of showing up with mud on my shoes and a smudge of dirt across my face. Then he's annoyed and he sends me away for being unpresentable, and I have a whole night to myself. He never knows I do it on purpose. He just thinks I'm too stupid to know better."  
  
"Hmm." Glorfindel ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. He could not attend the supper with dirty clothes if he only wanted to annoy Turgon. Fingolfin would dismiss him, which would be counterproductive. There had to be something he could do that Turgon would hate but Fingolfin would tolerate.  
  
"So, what annoys Turgon?" Oropher prodded.  
  
"I do," said Glorfindel. "My mere presence. But why that is, I think is because of my position with Finno. He hates Finno for being with me, and so he hates me. Also, he hated that I played as Indis in our show." He stopped. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth; an idea was beginning to form  
  
"Then what you need to do is..."  
  
"I believe I know what I need to do. I have a plan."  
  
~  
  
Fingolfin had not yet joined the party, which meant that Glorfindel was not yet late. As long as he arrived before the King made his grand entrance, the only one who could fault him for tardiness was Fingon. And, he could see as he paused in the doorway, Fingon appeared to be far too interested in a large cup of wine to notice much of anything, let alone the very understated arrival of his retainer. Glorfindel stepped into the room quietly and took up a position behind Fingon's chair.

Turgon was first to notice. As he took a sip of wine, he threw a passing glance in Glorfindel's direction and then choked and sputtered it back into his cup. He swore to himself as he wiped red droplets from his chin with the back of his hand, while the dark-haired captain on his right leapt up to offer a cloth. On his left side, the second captain stared with a gaping mouth. Idril merely blinked with mild surprise.  
  
"Good evening, my Lords and Lady," Glorfindel addressed them. "I must beg your forgiveness for my delayed arrival. I ran short of time after attending to my Prince Findekáno, and I do apologise deeply for any disrespect shown you in my failing to present myself with the timeliness you so deserve."  
  
"You what?" asked Fingon. He twisted in his chair to face Glorfindel, coming to stop halfway around as his eyes widened in surprise. He said nothing, though, and nothing again when Glorfindel stepped forward to stand at his side.  
  
"What in the name of Varda's good stars is this ridiculous get-up supposed to be?!" Turgon snapped.  
  
Glorfindel made a show of looking down at his clothing with concern. The red and silver robe itself was by no means ridiculous, and, now that he had rid himself of all of his jewels save the silver ring and a few hair clips, there was no ridiculousness to be found in his ornamentation, either. "I beg your pardon, my Lord," he said. "It grieves me indeed if my poor garments in some way offend you; that is by no means my intent."

"Quit the honeyed speeches, boy! You're painted up like some lewd wench, and it's an insult to my father's good house! What in Arda is the meaning of this?"  
  
"Oh!" said Glorfindel, hand flying up to his cheek. The white powder felt smooth as satin beneath his fingertips, though he was loath to touch it too much for fear of making a smudge. "But, my Lord, I am merely following your guidance!"  
  
Turgon, steadily reddening, looked poised to leap up from his seat in frustration. "My guidance!" he said. "However could you possibly think that such an affront to good morals could be following any guidance of mine?"  
  
"You spoke to me in the corridor earlier today," Glorfindel explained, and he smiled sweetly. "If you recall, you expressed some concern that I shared a name with your good captain, and then suggested that I take the name Laurefindiel to avoid any confusion between us two. You should now be pleased to know I have taken your advice. I am Laurefindiel. At your service." Graceful as any lady, he curtseyed low.  
  
"Service, indeed!" said Turgon. "I can only imagine what kind of 'service'. You look like a cheap harlot!"  
  
"Again, I humbly apologise for any offence given. You see, my Lord, I am still very young and have little experience in the ways of the world, and certainly I have none where harlots are concerned. Any resemblance between a harlot and me would be entirely accidental. However, if you, my Lord, are so experienced in the wiles of harlotry to detect such sin by sight alone, I graciously defer to your great wisdom and hope that you will further guide me in the proper application of cosmetics so as to not unintentionally convey the message that I am cheap."

Turgon sprang from his chair, followed by his two captains, though none had a chance to do anything more than draw a breath. The King's private doorway opened as Fingolfin made his appearance, attended by Rodhalair. Turgon scowled, but must have known his opportunity for rebuttal had vanished. He bowed to Fingolfin as the others at the table rose to do the same, then returned to his seat.

"Are we all assembled?" Fingolfin asked. He took his place at the head of the table. Rodhalair, glancing about for a free chair, looked frustrated to see that he would be relegated to the far end. Everywhere nearer the King had already been occupied. Glorfindel, too, would have to settle for a low seat, though he did not mind so much. Sitting far from Turgon was no hardship. Three empty chairs remained: one on Fingon's side of the table, and two on Turgon's. He stepped quickly in front of Rodhalair in a petty race for the chair on Fingon's side.

"Gracious, Laurefindil!" Fingolfin said at his back. "Is that you?"

Slowly, he turned to face the King, and bowed as a little surge of apprehension whipped through him. He had quietly assumed that Fingolfin would either accept or ignore his current eccentricity. If he had assumed incorrectly... "Yes, sir. Indeed it is I."

"Well!" said Fingolfin. "Don't you look charming this evening. But then, you always dress very well. Is this a new robe of yours?"

"I thank Your Highness for his generous compliments," Glorfindel answered, bowing again. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Turgon sneer and look away. He pursed his lips to keep from grinning. "And though this is not a new robe, it is my best. I would think of wearing nothing else tonight in the presence of my Lord's Grace. In fact I wish I had something finer, in order to do justice to the greatness of your court. I feel poorly underdecorated in the shining presence of my glorious King."

Fingolfin beamed. "Ah! For one so young you are a true gem among my courtiers. When did your words learn to match your looks for prettiness?"

"I have lived in the radiance of Your Highness' light for seven years," said Glorfindel. "Under such influence, how could I possibly fail to learn fairness and beauty?"

"You are an unrelenting flatterer, Laurefindil," laughed Fingolfin. "I like you. Come, sit here, at my side." He waved his right hand and one of the doormen brought forward a cushioned stool, placing it at the corner of the table between Fingolfin and Turgon. Fingolfin frowned. "No, not a stool. A proper chair. Go fetch one from the end of the table for my dear boy."

"Atar, I have to object-" Turgon began, though he was immediately shushed by his father.

"Nonsense. A chair can be fetched very easily."

"That was not my objection..."

"Chair," Fingolfin repeated, in a firm voice.

"I need no chair," Glorfindel said quickly. He passed behind Fingolfin and took his seat on the stool with what he hoped was a reverential enough smile. The stool, shorter than the rest of the seats at the table, placed him some inches lower than Fingolfin. It suited this new turn of events perfectly; adoring glances would have a greater effect coming from a low angle. "I would rather sit on a lowly stool beside His Highness than in a throne far from his gaze."

Beside him, Turgon made a sound like he had something dreadful caught in his throat.

Fingolfin, brimming with smug satisfaction as he was, paid Turgon's grunting complaints no acknowledgement. "You know, Laurefindil," he said as the steward poured him a generous cup of wine, "I always knew you would rise above the level of a common servant. You truly are in a class apart from those ill-bred ruffians one usually sees about here. And you do look exceptionally nice tonight."

Glorfindel expected to hear another snort out of Turgon at that, but Turgon merely stared down into his wine in seething silence. The requisite snort came from Fingon. Fingolfin, having suddenly developed a keener sense of hearing, frowned.

"Now Findekáno, one mustn't be envious." He reached out to pat his son's sleeve. "You look very handsome as well, and I am pleased to see you wearing some of your nicer clothes. Did Laurefindil style your hair for you?"

"Yes," Fingon answered in a flat voice.

Though Fingon's head still glittered with a cap of jewelled clips, Glorfindel was certain that some had disappeared between the bedroom and the dining table. The area above his ears looked somewhat sparse. And his hands, folded on the edge of the table, were missing two rings.

"You should employ his talents more often," said Fingolfin. "He has done lovely work of making you presentable."

Fingon's face remained expressionless. "I shall keep that in mind."

"I would be most honoured to be of such assistance to my Prince," Glorfindel said, "if he thinks me worthy of such a great task."

"Worthy..." snorted Turgon. He mumbled something further, though Glorfindel caught nothing but what sounded as if it might be the word 'pigs'.

Again, Fingolfin seemed not to hear. Instead, with a slippery and indulgent grin, he reached down to squeeze Glorfindel's thigh. "I am sure you are most worthy, Laurefindil," he murmured.

Glorfindel held back the shudder of revulsion that shot through his skin at Fingolfin's touch. There was no mistaking what it meant; the King's hand lingered, tapping out little fingertip caresses. He forced a coy smile before casting his eyes demurely to the floor.

From across the table, he could feel Fingon's fiery gaze on him like a hawk on a mouse.

?


	8. Voyeur

It was an unexpected turn of events, but, when he considered it, not entirely unwelcome. Glorfindel left the dining room with Fingolfin's possessive hand on the small of his back, subtly steering him away from the others and toward the private staircase.

"I have no idea where our Oroferno is this evening," Fingolfin said, his voice airy and perfectly conversational. "Would you mind, Laurefindil, accompanying me in his absence? I do require some assistance in my nightly routines."

"Er," said Glorfindel. He bit back any reply that might suggest he knew exactly where Oropher was. "It would be a wondrous honour indeed if my King's most glorious Highness desired the presence of my humble self. However..." He looked back over his shoulder to where Fingon leaned against the door to the dining hall, still resolutely clinging to a half-empty wine cup. "I might beg leave of your Grace so that I may better attend to my Prince Findekáno, who appears to be in dire need of my help."

On cue, Fingon took an unsteady step forward, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees. The wine cup rolled away, leaving a splash of dark red on the stones in its wake.

Fingolfin wrinkled his nose as he frowned. "Findekáno is drunk."

"Yes, my Lord. That is why he is in dire need of my help."

"I am sure he will not even notice your absence. One of the servants can help him upstairs. You may come with me for now and return to him later."

Glorfindel hesitated. Fingolfin's intentions were as plain as the stars in the sky, and although the end result of being the King's new favourite was more desirable than anything, the means required to achieve that goal made him shudder. Being bound to serve Fingon was one thing. Deliberately subjecting himself to Fingolfin's desires was another matter altogether.

Stepping back, he toyed with the ends of his hair while flashing the King a flirtatious smile. His mind raced to think of a clever enough excuse to refuse the offer. "And what if our Findekáno should be unwell in the night?" he asked. "I fear my King might command my attention for a very long time."

"Nonsense," Fingolfin replied smoothly. "For you, dear Laurefindil, I am certain I can undress in no time at all."

"Then you should have no need of such overqualified help," Turgon's voice snapped at Glorfindel's shoulder. "Atar, I am sure your good friend Rodhalair would be more than happy to accompany you upstairs. Safely and without incident. As for you, Lady Laurefindiel, you should go see to my disastrous brother. He appears to have forgotten how to stand."

Turgon was an unlikely saviour, and certainly one who had none of Glorfindel's interests in mind, but Glorfindel was in no position to be picky. "My Lord, you are very wise," he said, bowing his head; "that is an excellent solution.

"Yes, I am very practical," Turgon answered. He placed both hands on Glorfindel's arms, turning him around in a gesture that looked like directional guidance and felt like a hasty dismissal, and marched back over to where Fingon was attempting to regain his balance. Behind them, Rodhalair spoke some obsequious-sounding Doriathren words, and Fingolfin growled his clearly displeased thanks.

"Findekáno," said Turgon. "I have your wayward servant. Perhaps she can keep you from falling over."

Fingon, swaying from side to side, looked up. "I have a servant?"

"Your Laurefindiel."

"Him? Oh. Is he still mine? I was under the impression he had moved on to higher circles." Fingon waved his hand in a spiral in the air to illustrate, and stumbled back into a wall.

"She very certainly has not," Turgon replied.

"Odd," said Fingon. "He looked as if he had. Ah well. That is good news, hum? Laurefindil, you can help me be sick out the window. Hold my hair back."

"Do you feel very unwell, my Lord?" Glorfindel asked.

Fingon shook his head. "Oh, no. At the moment, I feel fantastic. I know from experience, though, that this will not last. So before the night is out..."

"Dealing with your vomit sounds like a perfect task for our Laurefindiel," said Turgon. "I will leave her to it."

"Thank you, brother," Fingon said. "Lauron, you come over here. I am having some trouble with my legs."

Sighing, Glorfindel walked over to wrap his arm around Fingon's waist and act as a support. It took all of his effort to keep from stumbling and falling as well; he and Fingon may have been matched for height, but Fingon, like Oropher, was considerably broader and heavier. The weight difference between them grew more pronounced with every step they took, as Fingon relied less and less on his own strength and slumped farther over onto Glorfindel's shoulder. They half staggered, half crawled up the stairs, Glorfindel both pushing and pulling Fingon to keep him moving.

By the time they reached the fifth floor, everyone else had long disappeared. Swearing and gasping for breath, Glorfindel shoved open the bedroom door, dragged Fingon the last few steps, and dumped him into bed. Fingon groaned.

"Oh... oh... that was not a good move..."

Glorfindel refrained from slapping him. "Does your Grace require a bucket?"

"No." Groaning again, Fingon burped and clenched his eyes shut. "I mean, yes. Yes. Bucket."

Glorfindel retrieved the chamber pot from beneath the bed, setting it within literal spitting distance of Fingon's head. "There."

"That's not a bucket."

"No, but it will do. Do you want me to help you into your nightclothes?"

"No," said Fingon. "Moving is not a good idea right now. I should stay exactly where I am."

"Shall I hold your hair back?"

"No. I think I will be fine. If I don't move, I will be fine. You may go."

"Are you certain?" Glorfindel asked.

"Very. Please, go. Being sick everywhere and probably pissing myself in front of you would be highly embarrassing. Get out of here."

"If you say so," Glorfindel replied, bowing.

"Just come back in the morning to make sure I've not choked on my own vomit and died."

"I will."

He needed no more persuasion. Glorfindel was across the room and out the door in a moment, shutting it firmly behind him and forgetting about Fingon. This strange new development with Fingolfin was something he needed to consider carefully, and careful consideration usually involved hearing Oropher's opinion: an opinion that would be all the more valuable given the subject matter. He took the stairs down to the third floor two at a time, and just managed to stop himself before bursting out into the corridor at the sound of a familiar voice.

"...would think is fine for tonight," the King was saying. "But thank-you, Oropher. I shall wait upstairs. Please tell Rodhalair he is dismissed if you see him."

Oropher made a grunting noise that was likely meant to function as an agreement, then the hard leather soles of Fingolfin's shoes began to tap across the floor. It took Glorfindel only a fraction of a second to pull his wits together enough to realise that being discovered lurking in the stairwell would not be beneficial. He had an unpleasant feeling that he knew exactly what Fingolfin, curiously free of his usual entourage, had been asking Oropher.

He ran up the stairs even more quickly than he had come down, dashing around the corner once he reached the fifth floor and throwing open the door to Fingon's bathing room. He shut it behind him and leaned back against the solid wood. In the silence of the night, the only sound he could hear was the occasional crackle from the failing fire. No matter how he strained his ears, there was no hint as to whether or not Fingolfin waited for him outside. The thick walls and door muffled any footsteps.

Sighing, he slid down until he sat on the floor with his knees tucked up to his chest. Leaving the room would be too risky, at least until he could convince himself that Fingolfin had surely given up and gone to bed. It was safer to wait. He sat with his back against the door and watched the fire's occasional flickers of yellow flame die down into an orange glow, then red. An hour or more passed before he worked up the courage to crack open the door and peer out into the corridor.

A shadowed figure stood across from Fingon's bedroom door. Glorfindel nearly leapt out of his skin at the sight, though he could tell at once that this person was far too short to be Fingolfin. He opened the door enough to look with both eyes.

"...Itarillë?"

Idril spun around to face him, glare firmly in place. "Finally! I've been waiting out here practically all night!"

"You've been..."

"I'm bored," she said.

"But you've been waiting for _me_?"

He knew he must have looked like an idiot staring at her, but there was no way to help it. He felt pleasantly lightheaded. Idril had been waiting for him. Somehow, with that in mind, it became far too easy to forgive her for everything that had happened the previous night. She had slipped seamlessly into perfect loveliness once again.

"Who else would I wait for?" she asked. "I said, I'm bored. Melessë fell asleep almost at the supper table and has been sleeping like a dead rock ever since. She's a day bunny."

"A what?" asked Glorfindel.

"A day bunny. See, Atya calls me a night owl because I'm always awake way into the night, but Melessë's the exact opposite and falls asleep even before it's dark out. So she's the opposite of a night owl. A day bunny."

"Oh. Right." Glorfindel stepped all the way out into the corridor. "So... You were waiting for me."

"Yes," said Idril. "I thought maybe you could invite me to have some wine by the fire with Taror Finno."

"Ahh, not such a good idea," Glorfindel said, shaking his head. "Finno is all wined out for the evening. Also, he's a bit of a... a bit of a day bunny. Went to bed a long time ago."

Idril's face fell. "Oh."

"But, uh, I could take you for some wine in, um, my room. I have a fire, too."

"You don't share a room with Taror Finno all the time?"

"Of course not. I'm important enough to have my own." He deliberately did not mention that his bedroom was only on the third floor.

If possible, Idril looked even more disappointed. "Oh... hmm. That's too bad. I was hoping I could watch."

"What do mean, watch-" Glorfindel's breath came to a dead halt in his throat. She could not possibly mean what he thought she meant.

"You know," she said with a certain suggestive curve to her voice. She did mean it.

"No. Absolutely not." Holding out his hands, Glorfindel made a grand gesture of refusal. "That's... no. No! Findekáno would never allow it."

"Who says he has to?" Idril asked with a shrug. "I could watch in secret."

Glorfindel could do nothing but stare at her. The situation was far too surreal. She looked back with only mild curiosity on her face, as if she had just asked him to show her something innocent along the lines of an unusual rock formation.

"Look," he said. "Itarillë... it's just not a very good idea. Finno would skin me alive if he found out. So would your father. They'd probably fight over who could do it. What if I just borrow some of Finno's clothes again, and-"

"I'd rather watch." She gave him her best flirtatious smile, licking her lips, and his heart melted into a puddle that settled somewhere in the vicinity of his groin.

"Uhhh... Right. Watch." Swearing at himself for his stupidity, he looked from Fingon's bedroom door to the bathing room door. He must have been fully insane for even considering it. "Wait here a minute."

He slipped back into the bathing room, and opened the inner door to the bedroom. The fire had died down too much to see anything more than Fingon's indistinct shape in the dull red-orange glow, but, from where he stood, he did have a good view of the bed. He leaned back out into the corridor to motion for Idril to join him.

"Here," he whispered. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but stand here. Keep the door open just a crack, and you should have a clear line of sight to the bed."

"It's too dark to see," Idril whispered in return.

"I'll stoke up the fire. Don't worry. Just stay here, and keep quiet. If Finno catches us, I'm telling him I had no idea you were here."

At a nod of agreement from Idril, he stepped into the bedroom and pushed the door shut until it hung open only a finger's width and all he could see was a strip of black. Idril, hiding in the darkness, was not visible at all. Satisfied, Glorfindel crossed to the fire and stirred it back to life, adding two logs, then took new candles from the box near the hearth to replace those burnt down on the bedside table. That would be enough light. He cast a nervous glance toward the bathing room door, but there was no sign of Idril. The bedroom looked exactly as it did on any other night. Somehow, that thought made the churning in his stomach worse.

He lit the candles and placed them in their holders on the table; their yellow light flickered down across Fingon's serenely sleeping face. At some point during the last hour, Fingon must have recovered enough to undress himself and comb out his hair. His clothes lay in a pile at the foot of the bed, covered with a glittery sprinkling of jewellery. The pot, unused, still sat where Glorfindel had left it.

"Finno," Glorfindel whispered.

Fingon, perfectly gilded by candlelight as he was, did not stir.

"Finno."

Fingon made a little snorting sound and tensed, rolling his head to the side, but did not awaken.

Reluctantly, Glorfindel reached down to touch Fingon's bare shoulder. The moment his fingertips made contact, Fingon's eyes snapped open and he jerked himself awake.

"Lauron!" he groaned. "What are you..."

"Um," said Glorfindel. His stomach churned again, but this time it was followed by a sharp prickle of exhilaration. He was about to put on a show. Just as with the play the other night, it was time to perform. Idril, his audience, waited. And he was even in costume.

Fingon noticed that particular detail. "Why are you still wearing your ludicrous makeup?"

"I... think it's nice?" Or else he had forgotten and not yet found the time to remove it. But, nice or not, he was glad he had not washed it off. The stiff weight of powder on his skin made him feel less like himself. So decorated, he was not Laurefindil of Valmar, but Laurefindiel the actor, playing a role. Laurefindiel, consort to the Prince. The makeup freed him. He sat down on the side of the bed, positioning himself as if preparing for a scene with Idril's vantage point in mind, and rested a hand on Fingon's blanketed thigh.

Fingon noticed that, too; he stared at Glorfindel's hand with blatant suspicion. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Glorfindel said, using the first excuse that came to mind. "I behaved very poorly earlier, hanging on the King's arm like some witless sycophant while ignoring you."

"And?"

"It... um... won't happen again?"

"You're right it won't," Fingon answered with a terse nod.

"Unless he specifically requests my presence," Glorfindel added. "I can't exactly refuse if he asks me to sit next to him at the table."

"No, but you can agree with a little less enthusiasm."

"You're right. I won't. I mean, I will. Agree with less enthusiasm." He dropped his head to the side, trying to mimic the same flirtatious smile Idril had given him in the corridor, but Fingon's suspicious gaze did not change.

"...Right," Fingon slowly said. "That's... that's perfect." He held eye contact with Glorfindel a moment longer before abruptly turning over and hiding his face in the pillow. "Good night, Lauron."

"Am I forgiven?" Glorfindel asked.

"Yes. Good night."

"You're not acting very forgiving..." The most flirtatious action he could think of was to run his hand up Fingon's thigh. He managed to cover three inches before Fingon's arm shot out to stop him.

"That's because you're acting like you want something."

"Want something? No, I only wanted to say sorry for-"

Fingon turned his head enough to give Glorfindel an owlish look from one eye. "Lauron. The only time you ever come in here acting so awkwardly affectionate is when you want a large sum of money. How much this time? Bearing in mind that I will say 'no'."

The words were out of his mouth before he could think to stop them. "Sixty kulustar."

" _Sixty_!" Fingon shouted. He sat up with such speed that it almost startled Glorfindel into falling off the bed. "Are you out of your mind?! By Manwë's blood, what do you need sixty kulustar for?!"

"Um... clothing and... jewellery," Glorfindel lied. "I think I need to start dressing in a manner more appropriate to court."

"No. Good stars, no, you don't. You're already too influenced by Ta's garish fashions."

"But most of my clothes are old styles from four years ago!"

"Who cares?"

"Your father the King cares."

"Then ask him for the money," said Fingon. "If he thinks you should dress differently, he should pay for it."

"Do you think he will?" Glorfindel asked.

"No, I don't. I think he'll tell you to ask me. And then I will say 'no' again."

"But Finno..." He tried Idril's smile once more, though it worked no better the second time. Fingon merely rolled his eyes.

"Laurefindil my dear, I am not giving you sixty kulustar. That's absolutely ridiculous. I don't even _have_ sixty kulustar. For that outrageous sum of money, I would have to submit a written request to the treasury and have it signed by Ta and two of his secretaries. And I would only do that if I were inclined to do so, which I am not. Now, I will give you one kulusta, but only if you promise to go away and let me sleep. Acceptable?"

"One kulusta will hardly buy me anything," Glorfindel pouted.

"I can give you nothing if you prefer."

"I'll take one for now."

"I thought so," said Fingon. "But I'll give it to you in the morning. Good night."

He lay back down and pulled the blankets over his head. Glorfindel, knowing enough to abandon a lost battle, stood up from the bed and was four steps away before he remembered why he had woken Fingon in the first place. Swearing under his breath, he turned around.

"Laurefindil..." Fingon growled from beneath the covers.

Glorfindel ignored the warning and stretched out on the bed, his arm draped lightly around Fingon's waist.

"I am not giving you any more money."

"I know."

"Then why are you still here?"

"What, I can't choose to spend the night with you?" Glorfindel asked, trying to sound hurt.

"You never have in the past, unless you're asking for some favour."

"I promise, I'm not. I only want to apologise for what happened at supper." Slowly, Glorfindel pulled the blanket away from Fingon's face, tracing the line of his cheek with soft fingertips. Fingon's sceptical expression never fell, but nor did he speak any word of discouragement as Glorfindel leaned forward to press a light kiss against his lips. He lay still until Glorfindel slipped a hand beneath the covers. Then, as before, his arm shot down to block the exploratory touch.

"I'm serious, Lauron," he murmured. "I will not give you any more money."

"Mm-hmm," Glorfindel replied, trailing light kisses to Fingon's jaw.

"Whatever you choose to do here tonight, it is done purely out of the desire of your greedy, conniving little heart."

"I know."

"I won't give you any money tomorrow, either."

"Stop fussing, will you?" Glorfindel asked. He pressed his lips hard against Fingon's, tasting the sourness of old wine. Fingon stopped fussing.

In his mind's eye, Glorfindel could imagine perfectly the scene that Idril would see from her hiding place behind the door. His body was placed directly between her and Fingon. Her line of sight would give her a clear view of his bottom. With consideration for the show he was about to put on, he rolled over to Fingon's other side, pulling most of the blankets with him. Idril now had a solid view of Fingon's bare shoulders and chest. Better. He pulled the blankets away entirely, and Fingon lay exposed to the dim firelight and cooling night air.

Fingon, despite all of his earlier words to the contrary, no longer had any objection to being kissed. His hands had found their way up to Glorfindel's neck, holding and caressing. Glorfindel allowed himself an indulgent, inward smile. The show progressed exactly as planned. He stole a glance toward the door, staring at the place where he guessed Idril's eyes would be, and tried to hold her invisible gaze. _Is this what you like?_ he asked her in his mind. _Does this please you, my lady?_ Slowly, he lowered his head just enough lick the corner of Fingon's mouth with his pointed tongue.

He could imagine that her silent answer was, _Yes_.

The line of his kisses moved across the curve of Fingon's cheek and to his ear, subtly urging Fingon to turn his face toward the door. This, Glorfindel wanted Idril to see: how much Fingon wanted these attentions. His desire burned, plain as the sun, across his face and hung in every shallow, hitching breath. Glorfindel slid lower on the bed, trailing kisses down Fingon's chest to his hip. His fingernails scratched down the taut muscles of Fingon's stomach. Fingon voiced no objection. Idril certainly would not. His hand grasped Fingon's hardening shaft; Fingon hissed, tensing his body and arching into the touch.

He thought about Idril as he took Fingon in his mouth. He thought about kissing her, tasting her, touching her all over: her hands, her neck, her breasts, her thighs. Desire burned like an ember, heating him through. His hands and lips worked over Fingon's hard flesh, and his mind wrapped him in Idril's soft caresses. All of his skill, all of his thoughts, went into pleasing the both of them.

Fingon finished with a muted groan, his fist clenched in Glorfindel's hair. Carefully, Glorfindel extricated himself and rolled away. Desire and need for release still simmered inside him, white-hot. His blood pounded with it. He stood up from the bed and paused, looking down at Fingon, who lay with his eyes half closed, breathing hard. "Good night," he said, allowing a little smile. Then he turned to go, leaving Fingon with an empty bed and a confused expression. He blew out the candles as he passed.

Behind the bathing room door, Idril sat on the floor with her legs tucked under and her knees splayed wide. Her skirt, Glorfindel saw, was hitched up to her thighs, and her hands clutched the hem. He shut the door behind him. The sliver of weak light disappeared, shrouding them both in blackness. In the dark, he felt Idril's hand close around his, guiding him down to her. She pulled his hand and then his hair until her lips met his in a frantic, needy kiss. He grasped the back of her neck. The skin was hot to his touch and damp with sweat.

"I love you," she whispered.

Glorfindel knew it was not true, but it thrilled him all the same to hear the words. "I love you, too," he replied. And he pushed her down to the floor.


End file.
